Fixation
by ZuzuPetalsInkBlot
Summary: HIATUS! A repressed young woman, looking for answers. A mysterious doctor, who seems perfectly normal on the surface. A sleepy New England town, with a horrible secret that lies beneath.
1. Chapter 1

_Fixation_

 _By Zuzu Petal_

 _Also known as Eleanor on Tumblr_

 _It never rained in Vulcan, but the day Michael Burnham decided to leave for the institute known as_ Discovery _it rained a record breaking twelve inches. Traffic was slow, not a soul in the sleepy town knew what to do. Roads were closed, detours erected. The drought that had seemed to cling to the town had been lifted but residents saw it as a curse. Michael saw it as fortuitous._

 _Michael had only left her hometown a handful of times in her life. A family vacation here, a school field trip there, a college tour in the bustling city of Betazed. But she had never left alone._

 _To say she was nervous would have been an understatement. You see, Michael Burnham, our heroin of this story, was in search of something. She was seeking out a former colleague of her guidance counselor from high school, Philippa Georgiou. The woman had been killed in a car accident almost two years prior and in more ways than one it had shaken Michael to her very core._

 _Michael had completed her second year of college, studying anthropology with a minor in psychology. It had been Philippa's suggestion she look into the psyche of others since she seemed to have such an observant mind. Michael was not entirely well versed in communicating with others, in fact it was her ability to be too empathetic that lead her down the path in trying to understand why humans did what they did and it was also what made her a social outcast._

 _As much of an influence as Philippa had been in Michael's life and education, it had come at a price the summer before her senior year of high school. An incident so shocking and world ending to Michael she never spoke of it. She simply hid it away under the bed, behind the locked doors of her mind, keeping it with her. Until it culminated in a terrible argument which lead to a woman's death._

 _The driver honked his horn at a car in front of him, flipping the other drivers off and speeding haphazardly down the road. Michael gripped the armrest on the side of the door._

 _She looked down at the address to the institute, the name of the director..._ Doctor Gabriel Lorca.

 _Looking out the window, she watched the town she had known all her life disappear in a rainy fog that seemed to swallow everything around it. The residents would figure out a way to survive the floods, Michael would not be home to help._


	2. Fixation: I

I

Michael stands outside of the _Discovery_ institute, it's plague silver and freshly cleaned.

 _A New Form of Self Discovery..._ it reads. She frowns, a little on the nose. She glances up from her piece of paper, the address written in a hurry, smudged from the rain. But here, in the quaint rustic New England town of Rourke, NH it was a sunny and mild Monday morning in May.

People passed by her on the street, smiling at her. _Patriots_ jerseys and hats adorned people and windows. Growing up hundreds of miles away, she had never really been exposed to culture like this before. They were a rowdy but friendly bunch, she decided. The lady behind the counter would speak quickly, harshly then call you "honey" on your way out.

 _Dunkin Donuts_ were around every corner, their competitor _Aroma Joes_ not too far away. But Mom and Pop business lined the city streets; local business from dentists to thrift shops seemed to attract all manner of people. Despite the _Domino's_ and _Pizza Huts_ , a local pizzeria made of lush red brick called _Lilika's_ was thriving with business, serving cold beer with your sticky cinnamon rolls.

But it was neither homemade fresh pizza or ice coffee that Michael had an appetite for. She checked herself into a local bed and breakfast.

The institute was three stories high, resting between a _Hallmark_ store and a bagel house. It was renovated in the 60's, it had been apartments for twenty years before it was abandoned for whatever reasons tennants decide to up and leave; rats in the basement, cockroaches in your cream cheese, a murder or two...

The stories seemed to go on forever about the history of _1031 Central Ave_. Michael paid little attention to such fanciful tall tales, she had never given them much credence before.

"Excuse me, miss?" Michael hears a voice, breaking her from her contemplation. A fiery redheaded young woman stands before her in semi formal attire. She's a little pudgy with a soft porcelain doll like face.

"Yes." Michael answers as politely as she has taught herself to.

"Are you lost?" The woman asks, Michael sees her name tag says _Sylvia._

"No." Michael answers, the woman named Sylvia glances around herself dumbly.

"Ok... so-so it's just that -um- well, you've been standing here for like ten minutes and... well the office manager says I either have... shit... I mean damn it- fuck! Shit. I'm sorry-"

Michael holds up a hand, the girl's alabaster cheeks have gone as red as her hair.

"I'm here to see Director Lorca." Michael says, quickly.

"Oh... oh well he's not in." Sylvia replies.

Michael groans and twists the paper in her hand.

"Damn it." She mutters through clenched teeth, ready to leave when Sylvia speaks again,

"He's having lunch across the street at _Lenny's_ but he really, _really_ doesn't like to be disturbed. You can, um, wait inside." Sylvia offers with a friendly smile and she does something awkward with her arms, a queer gesturing towards the inside.

Michael nods and follows the woman inside.

The area is cool with marble floors, instead of the drab grey office walls and carpet she had been expecting. Plush waiting chairs in the formal waiting room look inviting and comfortable. Sylvia moves behind a wide desk and gestures for Michael to wait on the other side.

There's no giant bullet proof glass separating them, telephones ring quietly in the background. Other men and women dressed similarly to Sylvia mingle with one another or talk with, what Michael assumes, are patients or visitors.

"I can page his office so he knows you'll be waiting," Sylvia says, taking out a clipboard and handing it to her. "Just sign in here." She circles a underlined empty space at the bottom of the paper. Michael scribbles her signature in a hurry, it's not her best work.

Sylvia glances at the paper and she speaks,

"Michael? I've never met a girl Michael before. Got any nicknames?"

"No." She answers, taking in her surroundings. The area smells like lilacs, a trademark of New England. That and birch trees.

"Oh..." Sylvia says, making an apparent 'O' face.

"When will he be back?" Michael asks quickly, her eyes moving back to Sylvia again.

She looks at her wrist watch,

"Another ten minutes. He..." Sylvia pauses, making a come here motion with her hand, Michael leans forward. "He _covets_ his lunch hour. Spends it entirely alone. I only know he goes to _Lenny's_ 'cause I spied on him this one time- oh, shit, no you didn't hear that."

Michael can't help but find the girl amusing. Completely unfiltered though she tries desperately. It's almost like she knows she doesn't belong here among the fancy college students and interns.

"Have you been here long?" Michael asks, trying to make conversation. She doesn't want to sit alone with her own thoughts any longer than she already has. She's spent the last two days getting here with nothing but herself as company. It had been agony.

"Oh I've lived here my whole life." Sylvia answers sweetly. "Oh... oh you mean at the- at _Discovery_ no. One of my professor's recommended me to Director Lorca. Fast tracked kinda thing. I go to _UNH_ in _Durham_."

"Good school?" Michael asks and Sylvia nods.

"Wasn't my first or second but my parents are alumni so... woo, go Wildcats!" Sylvia says, but Michael senses the girl is feigning excitement and she probably has never been to a college football game in her life.

"What about you?" Sylvia asks.

"UV." She answers simply and the girl practically sputters.

"Oh, oh my god that _was_ my first choice!" She exclaims and Michael sighs.

"It's everyone's." She replies.

"My second was the UB, in Betazed, but again... Wildcats." Sylvia says and Michael nods, understanding. She knew all too well the pressure of family, what was expected and what wasn't. She also knew the sting of betrayal that family could bring, the suffering.

"If you want to wait he should be back soon. He usually comes in through the back anyhow. He'll buzz me when he's ready." Sylvia says, Michael notices someone else has walked in and is waiting to be seen.

Nodding, she goes to one of the chairs in the waiting area. It's as comfortable as she thought.

She had practiced what she was going to say to him her whole journey. Had she really come all this way to ask a few questions...? Yes, she had. She would ask them, she would demand answers. He was the last person, besides herself, Philippa had spoken to before her death. Before that terrible night...

" _You betrayed me!"_ She remembers herself yelling, heart broken and finally unleashing all of the anger and resentment she had bottled up for years.

" _We love you, Michael."_ It was the last thing Philippa had said to her.

"Michael?" She hears Sylvia says and she's relieved to be taken away from her own memories.

"He buzzed me. Elevator is over there, number ten." Sylvia informs her and she nods, rising and fixing her light spring jacket.

Michael goes to the elevator and waits, when it arrives no one is inside. She enters and presses 10. There's soft classical music playing on a small speaker in the corner, in the adjacent corner was a small speck of a surveillance camera. Michael felt tense suddenly, she was being watched. She avoided eye contact with the device at all costs, pulling her purse higher up her shoulder as if it could act as a shield or a barrier.

The elevator dings and she exits directly into a shadowy office, one that clashes heavily with the white exterior and decoration from the downstairs. The drapes are drawn, the lights are dim, and Director Lorca sits at his desk writing something, the scraping of the ballpoint pen against paper is the only sound in the room. She wonders how he can even see what he's writing... but then the lights begin to rise. She deduces they're on some sort of timer.

Michael wasn't sure if she should announce herself or not. Clearly he knew she was here. She notices the door behind his lengthy and organized desk and she assumes it was the "back door" Sylvia was referring to.

Something catches her eye and she can't help but look; an elegant glass case filled with various different knives. From a stilhetto to a small dirk. Michael found herself standing over them and didn't realize when the scribbling on rough paper had stopped.

"Michael Burnham?" His voice cuts through the silence and dim room, startling her but she tries not to show it. He had stealthily crept up on her.

Feet away she takes in his appearance; she had Googled him obviously but seeing him in the flesh was entirely different. He was taller than he had appeared in the one staff photo there had been of him, and he had been in the middle of a conversation with a patient at the same height as himself so she hadn't been able to guess how tall he really was.

His hair was as dark as it appeared, but there were flecks of grey here and there. His eyes were more orphic than in the staff photo. Profoundly gazing upon her even with the lines of age around his face.

"Yes." She answers and he gestures towards two worn dark leather chairs that are seated dividing into one another. The whole set up made the visitors feel as if the whole room were in unity.

Michael sits, her purse coming to rest in her lap. Director Lorca stands behind his desk, preferring simply not to sit.

"Director Gabriel Lorca, how can I be of service?" He asks her politely. She notes he has an accent he conceals, but falters now and then.

He's dressed in a white coat, a navy blue button up and tan trousers. He looked inviting and welcoming, kind. Trusting...

"I came here to ask some questions," Michael begins, refraining from taking out her notepad.

Before she can continue he speaks,

"About the institute?"

Michael shakes her head.

"No-"

"The treatment we provide?" He continues. Michael clenches her fist subtly.

"I came to ask about Philippa Georgiou." She comes right out with it. He makes a sound with his tongue, finally seating himself.

"You were a student of hers?" He asks, clasping his hands together on his desk.

"Yes. She was... also a family friend." She tells him and he nods in understanding.

"We went to college together," he tells her. "Kept in touch here and there. She was brilliant, she could really get into the mind of a troubled individual. I was sad to hear of her accident."

Michael lowers her eyes, returns them to him after a few beats of her hammering heart to compose herself.

"You were one of the last people she spoke to before she died," Michael begins. "I... I was just wondering what she sounded like."

"How do you know we spoke?" He asks, instead of answering her question which she finds irritating.

"I was there that night." She admits. "I heard her on the phone before..." She can't finish. She can't tell him why Philippa got into her car that night, upset and shaken. Michael can't tell him that. Unless he already knows. "She said your name- I... I heard her say your name. She didn't have any close relatives so my family helped dispose of her things. My father is a lawyer so he handled her estate and..."

Again, the words are difficult for her to articulate and she knew she was beginning to ramble. She didn't like talking about death, especially when it was someone she knew so well. Michael had seen a lot of death in her young life, but this was different.

She didn't remember her parents, but she remembers Philippa.

"I can see this is hard for you," Director Lorca says gently. "Perhaps it is too soon to talk of such things."

Michael shakes her head. Almost two years was long enough.

"I'm fine." She assures him.

"Perhaps we should take a walk." He suggests, rising from his chair. They enter the elevator and he brings her to a garden behind the building, she can hear the noise of traffic and footfalls, she can smell fresh bagels from the bagel house next door.

There's the river nearby, a path to walk near an abandoned railroad track.

"They haven't been used in years," he tells her, gesturing to the rusted rails. "When they built the new route this one became obsolete. But there is something simpler about coming down here, peaceful."

Director Lorca descends a small hill, at the bottom he holds out his hand to her. Michael ponders taking it, but she's too stubborn for that. Making her way slowly down the decline she continues on the path with him following her.

"You've never been to New Hampshire before?" He asks her and she shakes her head.

"No. I did some research into UNH but... I'm going to be a junior at VU." She tells him.

"What's your major?"

"Anthropology with a minor in psychology."

Director Lorca stops, as if caught by something, then goes near the water. An aluminium can floats nearby, he leans down to pick it up and brings it to a recycling bin. He takes out a small bottle of Purell, cleansing his hands.

"I hate seeing waste." He says.

"Director, about Philippa Georgiou-"

"I know, I know," he answers kindly. "It's a touchy subject. She wasn't in the best frame of mind, that much I could tell."

Director Lorca takes Michael by her elbow, directing her back to the path, releasing her after a moment.

"She was upset." He pauses, gazing at the lilacs ready to come into bloom. "Did you know certain breeds of lilac need an extremely cold hibernation period?" He asks her suddenly, veering towards one of the plants, she follows. "April to May are their peek blooming periods, so you're just in time."

Michael isn't sure where he's going with this.

"They can last for days after being cut and their fragrance remains sweet and fresh afterward. Beautiful little creature." He sighs, his hands in his pockets and he looks back to her. "I'm not sure how else I can be of help, Miss. Burnham."

Michael grips the handle of her purse. She wasn't entirely sure what she was expecting. Philippa had been upset, could she have told him why?

"Did she go into any further detail?" Michael asks him, hopeful almost. He shakes his head.

"Miss. Burnham, I hope you don't mind, but even though she didn't outwardly say it, I took her words into confidence as if she were any patient of mine. I hope you can understand why I would feel uncomfortable telling you."

Michael shakes her head.

"But... but she _wasn't_ a patient. You're not under any oath." She argues, her frustrations coloring her voice.

"Miss. Burnham, are you feeling alright?" He asks her, worriedly, coming closer but she backs away.

"I'm fine, just tired from traveling." She says, turning away and stepping into the shade.

"Why don't you come back inside and rest." He suggests but Michael steps further away from him.

Michael didn't like how close he was getting, not because she was threatened... she wasn't. She didn't like strangers and close proximity to men was practically a foreign concept to her.

 _Maybe you shouldn't have run away from home to be surrounded by them,_ she repremends herself.

"Look, if you think of anything please contact me." Michael explains where she's staying and gives him the bed and breakfast business card. He pockets it and nods.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help." Director Lorca says, extending his hand to her. She doesn't shake it, simply nods at him and takes her leave.

The truth is, Michael doesn't try to be rude and she knows her behavior will be seen that way. She doesn't let it bother her, she shouldn't have to change herself to make others feel more comfortable. Sadly, Philippa had been trying to tell her that it wasn't about changing herself. It was about being approachable and kind without expecting anything in return.

Social cues were not something she had ever truly grasped. She, mostly because of how she was raised, didn't see the point in meaningless niceties.

Back at the bed and breakfast she chose to stay in as opposed to exploring. In Vulcan she knew the town blindfolded. She could walk to her dad's office backwards. She knew every street and corner store. Every little hidden piece of history, which was scarce since it was a newer community with the luxury of being so close to a pristine college campus.

But here, in Rourke, she knew no one and nothing. She wasn't afraid of exploring a new town and she wasn't afraid to talk to people. Quite frankly, she just didn't want to. Ever since Philippa's death she had retreated into herself. She had never been a social butterfly but she knew people even if they weren't best friends.

Michael's friends had been her teachers in school. She had seen no shame in being called a teacher's pet. She accepted the label because it was true. If others simply did their homework, come to school on time and didn't behave like animals then they would all be in the teachers good graces.

Michael never understood the _need_ or desire for rebellion. She saw no point in it.

After summoning the courage to request a dinner tray she ate steamed asparagus and a small steak. Pulling the covers back on her double bed she flicked the lights off, the streets were still dim, the sun was finishing it's descent into the abyss and there were people walking hand in hand or alone, in the distance there was music but it was inaudible. She closes her eyes and hopes she will have a reprieve from the memory of the accident at least for tonight.


	3. Fixation: II

II

" _In the language of flowers, purple lilacs represent the first emotions of love. While white lilacs represent youthful innocent."_

Upon waking there is a rapping at her room door. She blinks a few times, crud catching on her eyelid and she grunts. Sitting up she pulls the covers back, walking awkwardly in a room she is still unfamiliar with. Opening the door, it is the woman who owns the bed and breakfast, holding out a slip of paper.

Fran, with an unlit cigarette in the corner of her mouth, her _Pats_ jersey old and frayed at the cuffs.

"Honey, first bill," Fran says holding out the receipt. Michael processes the information and tiredly goes to her purse. She hands Fran a hundred dollar bill and then another on top of it.

"I'll take it one more night." Michael says, her voice scratchy and dry. Fran takes the money and tears the receipt in half.

"You gonna want dinner again?" Fran asks, taking her cigarette out of her mouth to turn it over between two fingers.

"Haven't decided." Michael replies and the older, stout woman turns to leave. "Wait. What time is it?"

"8:45." The older woman says before making her way down the hall.

Michael closes the door and goes to her small bathroom to shower. 8:45, she's getting a late start. Michael has always been an early riser. She prefers having all the time in the day she can use. She opens the window in the bathroom a crack and turns the shower on, letting the room fill with steam before stepping under the spray.

She's decided she'll explore Rourke a little, the light of day will afford her a better lense in which to see how these people live their day to day lives. Then, after lunch, she will return to the institute. Perhaps a night to think about their talk will have made Director Lorca more likely to discuss things.

Wearing a light spring jacket, blue jeans and decent walking shoes she steps out onto Liberty St. The bed and breakfast is located a short walk from the town center, where all the shops and restaurants are already beginning to open their doors. Michael gets breakfast at a little cafe which boasts it's two locations in _Rourke_ and _Portsmouth_ proudly.

The local youth are rambunctious but all in all seem pretty harmless. The yuppies are like they are everywhere; moving into old Victorians or what were once multi family homes now sectioned off into beautiful apartments. Michael could truly appreciate the architure.

Back home in Vulcan there was rustic history but it was different. Most of the old houses in the neighborhoods had been torn down to make way for high rise apartment buildings with all kind of amenities.

But here, in this sleepy New England town, everything felt old with a history that truly fed her soul. It was around 11:45 AM, she's standing on the bridge in the center of Central Ave, the water rushing by, green and murky and one of the few unpleasant things she's discovered about this town, a drowned rat floats by.

"Miss. Burnham," she hears a familiar voice, for a second she doesn't think it's directed at her, maybe at a different Burnham. Until she sees Director Lorca coming towards her.

"I see you didn't leave," he says politely, he extends his hand again like yesterday. Michael reminds herself to have manners, that it was very rude of her not to have taken him up on the gesture before. More rigidly than she meant to she shakes his larger hand.

"Good morning, Director." Michael says, pitching her voice a little at the end because of the rushing water.

"Would you like to join me for lunch?" He asks her, she's about to say "no" when his hand moves to her elbow, as it did yesterday, maneuvering her out of the way of a woman and an alarmingly huge stroller.

But this time, he doesn't release her as quickly as he did before. She's not exactly uncomfortable, she's not familiar with this level of intimate contact from a stranger.

"I was told you covet your time alone." Michael tells him and he shrugs.

"The interns like to make up stories about me," he says, and he turns them towards the opposite direction and she follows in toe with him. "I do cherish my alone time. However, I understand that you are here under special circumstances."

Director Lorca holds the door open to the little mom and pop restaurant named _Lenny_ 's. She assumes he sits in this same booth every day.

"How was your first night in Rourke?" He asks her, a waitress brings him a cup of coffee without him needing to order it. Yes, Michael was right in her deductions about him, he was a creature of simple habits.

"Peaceful. I haven't slept that well in a long time." Michael says, feeling her shoulders relax she sets down her purse beside her.

"This place does that to you," he says with a smile. "Lulls you into a calm sense of security."

"I hear there's plenty of stories surrounding the town." Michael goes on, seemingly forgetting that she wanted to talk about Philippa. But that could wait... couldn't it?

"One of the oldest settlements in the state," he begins. "Ghosts stories surround every farm house and renovated apartment building within a twenty mile radius." He chuckles at his own joke, which makes her feel a little more at ease.

"I don't believe in ghosts." She comments, the waitress comes and takes their order. He recommends the _Rourke Mix 'N' Mash_ and she takes him up on it, also deciding on black coffee.

"We don't see Gabe with many visitors." The waitress, named Tami, comments.

"I have friends, darling." He says to her with a wink and she smiles, her yellow teeth highlighted by the rays of sun coming in through the windows.

 _Does everyone here smoke?_ Michael wonders, coming from a fairly button down community where smoking meant you were one " _those people"_. One of those people who littered, didn't mow your lawn or put your trash out on time.

"What kind of treatment do you offer exactly?" Michael asks him when the conversation lags a bit.

"I'm sure you read the website." He says, waiting for her next move.

" _Discovery offers aid towards the path to wellness and a better, healthier mental health,_ " she quotes verbatim, he's visibly impressed. "Colorful, but vague."

Director Lorca smiles and scratches the back of his head.

"Do you know what one of the most powerful emotions and motivators exists within our own psyche?" He asks her and she shrugs.

"There are many." She counters and he agrees.

"Guilt." He answers, the word stings her more than he realizes, perhaps he doesn't realize how much. She swallows as he continues,

"It eats away at us, torments us, when we're trying to fall asleep or when we're doing the dishes. It doesn't matter. One thing can trigger a memory of something that leaves us feeling sick to our stomachs with guilt."

Director Lorca leans forward a little, his eyes softening.

"I'm not talking about the cashier who gave you the wrong change back and you didn't say anything," he pauses. "Or... the toy you borrowed from your sibling and broke and never told them. I'm talking about the deepest, darkest parts of our own personal depravity that have shaped us into the people we are today. When you can learn to confront your own guilt, exercise it, and overcome all of those feelings of disgrace then you can truly begin to live a healthier, happier life."

Michael shakes her head.

"Guilt is a simple product of human biology. We're sympathetic, empathetic creatures." She argues.

"Not all of us," he counters. "You'd be surprised how many people I see who don't realize why their actions haunt them the way that they do. They saw nothing wrong with cheating on their spouse, running over a neighbor's dog and not saying anything... but it still claws its way back to the surface. Guilt can motivate us into good things, but only because we persecute ourselves. Not necessarily because it's the right thing to do."

"You try to help people live a guilt free life?" She asks and he shakes his head.

"No. That's impossible. I simply help people make peace with their guilt. Haven't you ever felt guilty, Michael?"

It's first time he's used her name and she feels a strange tingle down her fingertips when he says it. She clears her throat and drinks her coffee, she says nothing more when their food arrives. Eating in silence during almost every meal was something she was used to from her childhood. But her mother made the conscious effort to ask about Michael and her brother's day.

Sarek, her father, was the far less vocal one...

 _Sarek... the liar._

Afterward, she walks with him quietly back towards the institute. The rush of the river seems less constant, the people are still everywhere, happy couples and nuclear families. No matter what area of the world you were in, families made you miss home, but then they made you remember why you ran away in the first place.

"Something on your mind?" Director Lorca asks, the pace is slow he doesn't seem to be in a hurry.

"Plenty." She answers vaguely. "I don't suppose there's a chance you would reconsider telling me what you spoke to Philippa about?"

Director Lorca sighs and stops in front of the _Discovery_ building. Michael feels him once more take her elbow. Comforting, supportive, trusting, consoling...

"Michael," he begins lightly. "I get the impression you're not going to let this go, hmm?"

Shaking her head, she speaks,

"I can't. I'll stay here as long as I have to."

"What about your education?"

Shrugging she lets her purse slip down onto her forearm and he lets go.

"I have my whole life to further it, besides it's summer vacation soon, I can make up for whatever I missed in the fall." Her excuse is thin but he doesn't press it anymore.

"Why don't you come by later tonight? We can talk more then." He suggests, she thinks he's humoring her. Perhaps he is. But maybe he will open up more about Philippa and what they talked about.

If he knows about the fight then he's doing a good job at pretending he doesn't. Why not just tell her to get lost if he knows. Why else would Philippa have contacted him?

"Very well." She says, whether he's humoring her or not it would be nice to talk to someone who knew her former counselor well. She couldn't talk to her father about it- no, he wasn't her father anymore. Not to her. He wasn't even her biological father.

"Very good. Ah, Ash," Director Lorca says, when a handsome, tall man with tan skin appears in the doorway, appearing to be on his way somewhere. The young man smiles at the Director, but makes personal eye contact with Michael, she looks away.

The man named Ash removes an earbud.

"Director, I was just on my way to lunch." Ash says and Director Lorca gestures to Michael.

"This is Michael Burnham, a student from VU." Lorca explains pleasantly.

"Ash Tyler, resident motivational speaker." The man named Ash says, jokingly. She thinks it's funny but not enough to laugh, simply to smile.

Ash extends his hand and she hesitates before shaking it; attempting to right her, what many perceive as, rude behavior.

"Ash has been with the institute for eighteen months," Lorca explains, his tone slightly clipped all of the sudden. "If you have any questions feel free to seek him out. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Director Lorca disappears inside the building leaving Michael and Ash alone.

"Don't worry, he's always like that," Ash assures her. "It was nice meeting you."

"Wait."

Michael follows him, he removes the lock off a bike leaning against a tree on a grassy patch near the institute.

"May I walk with you?" She asks and he nods, not seeing the harm in it. "You've been working here eighteen months?"

Ash sighs and shakes his head.

"Actually, I've been working here officially for six but... I was a patient first. Heroin, eighteen months sober. Director Lorca got me clean, once and for all."

Michael is startled by the revelation and that he would be so comfortable telling her after they had just met. He seems to read this on her face.

"Here at _Discovery_ honesty is key to lasting relationships with both coworkers and patients. I'm not ashamed of my past. It's the present and the future that matter." He tells her, his voice confident and soft.

"You assume I'll be here a long time." She comments and he shrugs.

"Won't you? Isn't that why you're here, to get better?" He asks and she shakes her head.

"I'm here for answers." She tells him.

"We all want answers." He says and she groans.

"Does everyone here speak with such... borderline arrogance, frankly."

Ash Tyler chuckles and stops at a crosswalk, pressing the large round silver button.

"We just live with open minds, Michael. No offense but from what I hear about Vulcan it's a pretty closed off community." He says and she's not offended, she has no reason to be. To take offense to mindless gossip would be like crying over spilt milk. There's no point.

"We like to keep to ourselves." She says and the light turns red affording them safety to cross.

"What are you doing out here, so far from home, if it's not to cure whatever ails you?" He asks.

"I came for answers about a family friend. She passed away almost two years ago now." Michael admits.

"I'm sorry to hear that. Why'd you wait so long?" He asks further.

"My own reasons. Fear, probably."

"Fear? Why are you afraid?"

Michael stops on the sidewalk and suddenly realizes she's talking too much. She's a private person, she doesn't talk about her every little problem or woe out in the open like this.

"I'm sorry, I have to go. Thank you for... talking. Good day." She waves awkwardly and leaves the way she had come. Ash calls out a goodbye to her but nothing more.

 _Odd girl,_ he thinks to himself before mounting his bike and going about his business.


	4. Fixation: III

III

Gabriel watches from his office window with the drapes slightly parted as Michael comes back the same way she had left with Ash. If she was here for what he thought he was getting more than he bargained for. He hadn't expected her to come at all. Philippa's phone call had been manic and short. He had been counseling her via Skype for a few months before her death.

Philippa had been feeling extremely depressed, she had begun menopause early, her body was changing, her outlook on life had altered and she felt she had no purpose. He had been there for her during this new stage of her life. She had mentioned her affair in the past but it had been brief, it was her greatest shame. And inherently the name of a young girl she knew came up often.

Many times during their talks it was "Michael this" and "Michael that". Gabriel found it somewhat insufferable, he didn't particularly care for children. He recognized that some were born with gifts that appeared early in their life. But this child sounded more and more like a contradiction each time Philippa mentioned her.

The girl was studious but often off in her own little world. She was highly observant and sharp but lacked social skills and was often overly emotional due to her empathetic nature until one day the girl seemed to turn off all emotion altogether. The girl was excellent at spotting a liar but failed to achieve in mastering the art of deception herself.

Gabriel had never thought he would actually meet Michael Burnham, until she showed up at the institute yesterday and, quite frankly, nearly knocked him on his ass. Upon meeting her, he finally understood what Philippa had been trying to tell him. And he discovered more as well. Michael wasn't the only one who was capable of reading people.

To put it bluntly Gabriel did see a young woman brimming with intelligence, but her lack of social manners and basic cues left her appearing almost dim witted. And since she was from Vulcan that just entered a whole new set of issues into the equation. The community was very strict with rules and regulations and protocols. They weren't a cult, they weren't a commune, they were simply a group uptight, intellectual yuppies who rarely ventured out beyond their own borders.

 _Does sound like a commune actually,_ he thinks to himself.

Gabriel also saw Michael as someone who was, more than likely, extremely repressed. She didn't like to be touched, yet when he grasped her elbow without her consent without shadowing her every move, she didn't protest. Another contradiction. She hadn't shaken his hand upon their first meeting, but she did with Ash.

There was much to ponder. Gabriel had made up his mind, he wasn't going to tell her what he and Philippa had talked about however brief it had been, not yet at least. Quite frankly it wasn't any of Michael's business. And besides... it might do more harm than good. She had a personal interest in the late woman's final moments of life... it spelled GUILT out to him clearly.

But he did see a potential in her. He needed to understand her mind better, herself. Did she even know herself? At twenty one years old, she didn't seem to even feel comfortable in her own skin. In fact she seemed to try and hide every inch of herself behind a veneer of rude and abrupt behavior.

That was a good way to keep people at a distance, but a terrible way to ever learn if you could actually interact with other human beings.

Watching her disappear from out of sight, he did hope she would come to see him tonight. He wasn't the type of doctor to help anyone pro bono, but Michael had known Philippa; his former colleague had taken a personal interest in the girl a long time ago. He would honor her as best he could. Perhaps he could even help Michael discover herself.

Washing his hands he avoids his reflection, knowing what he'll see.

 _Don't act so holier than thou, Gabe,_ the voice whispers to him. _Why are you ignoring me?_

He bites the inside of his cheek, opening a drawer he removes a small pill bottle, popping two.

 _Drugs won't get rid of me, you know that,_ the voice reminds him, bored. Gabriel doesn't respond, he lets the pills do their work.

 _I could get her to talk. You know I could. Just like Eva..._

"Shut up." He snaps, looking at the mirror finally, chilled at what he sees behind him. But it's not really there, it wasn't real. A byproduct of his past, a syndrome, a parasite of the mind.

 _But she's not Eva,_ it whispers, coming closer to stand behind him. _You like this one. You don't simply want to conquer her, you want more..._

"Go away." He orders and the voice chuckles.

 _Go away? Remember, Gabe? I'm not really here._


	5. Fixation: IV

IV

The sun took it's time setting, the sky morphed into pinks and purples, reminding Michael of the paintings her adoptive mother had decorated their living room with. Amanda was a very skilled and depthful artist. Even the snooty, Vulcan residents couldn't deny that.

" _You must never be afraid to paint what you feel,"_ Amanda explained to Michael when she was young. " _Even if it's just splashes of color, those colors you choose in that moment stay on the canvass forever. Your feelings are a washboard of emotions, thoughts and feelings."_ Amanda had always been so whimsically poetic.

Michael looks down at her phone: three missed calls from home, all from her mother. She sighs and turns her phone off and enters the _Discovery_ building in haste.

Sylvia Tilly is pulling on a cardigan and waves at her.

"You can go up to see him, he's expecting you." Sylvia says sweetly. "You gonna start having sessions?"

Michael shakes her head.

"I doubt it. Goodnight."

Tilly offers a polite goodbye and leaves with the rest of the staff, only a janitor down the hall remains and possibly an overnight nurse or two.

Once more the elevator doors open and the office appears before her. The windows are open and the gentle breeze causes the drapes to billow, making yawning shapes that tickle the fabric.

Director Lorca has his back to her, his white coat removed and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He stands over his desk, once again scribbling something.

"Good evening." She says, choosing this time to speak first instead of simply saying nothing at all.

"Michael, make yourself at home. Can I get you anything?" He asks and she shakes her head.

They stand there for a moment, neither speaking, till he snaps his fingers lightly.

"Damn, where are my manners?" He says, he's coming towards her and she almost backs away when his hands reach out... but he's only helping her take her coat off. She feels herself flush when his hands touch her shoulders, her arms...

"I can hang this up for you." He says politely, moving to a closet near an unused fireplace. Michael clears her throat and sits down, glancing once more at his collection of knives.

"I thought stilettos were illegal." She says as he comes around to his desk, sitting on the edge.

"Are you going to turn me in?" He asks, coyly, and she shakes her head. "Good. Then, let's move on."

Director Lorca picks up a notepad and removes the top of his pen. Then clicks the record button on a tape recorder.

"Why do I feel like I'm about to be in session?" She asks him and he smiles.

"Think of it as informal." He suggests and she sighs, but she doesn't leave.

"Where were you born?" He asks, starting slow and simply.

"Washington, D.C." She answers and he writes it down, using his left hand she notices.

"And your parents, where are they from?" He asks and she shakes her head.

"My parents died when I was three from an armed robbery gone wrong. I... slept through it." Michael tells him and his eyes soften considerably.

"I'm sorry." He says gently. "Your adoptive parents then, are originally from Vulcan?"

Michael nods.

"Sarek was born and raised there, Amanda is from Connecticut. She gave up everything to be with him. The doctor told her she couldn't have children so they adopted me, then I guess miracles do happen because then my brother Spock was born nine months later." She explains, however there is no whimsy to her voice. Her tone is clinical, matter of fact.

Director Lorca continues to write.

"How old are you?" He asks.

"Twenty one."

He stops writing after that, then puts the pad down and cracks his thumb, flexing his hand.

"Why do you want to know what Philippa and I talked about?" He asks her and she wasn't expecting it, she was expecting more generic questions about her life.

"I... we had a fight the night she died," Michael divulges. "I was wondering if she mentioned it."

"You could've told me that earlier." He tells her and she shakes her head.

"I am not proud."

There it is, her crux. He didn't necessarily feel proud that he discovered it, but it did put a few more pieces of the puzzle together. As a doctor, he felt he was making progress.

As a man... he couldn't help but notice the way her skinny jeans clung to her body, the way her chest rose deeply with each breath; her breasts her small but high and... shit, he reminds himself to look at her face.

"How old were you when you met Philippa?" He asks, taking the seat opposite Michael.

"Five, maybe six." She tells him.

"You looked up to her, another mother perhaps." He says and she nods.

"Absolutely. There were many times my parents went away and Philippa watched over Spock and I. They trusted her to protect us and punish us." Michael explained. "She was never stern though, but she had commanding voice. You didn't want her to follow through with a punishment." She smiles sadly at the memory.

" _Michael, I'm going to count to three. One- good girl, come here. Come here. You can't push your brother down like that, he's not as big as you yet."_ Philippa's voice felt like it was right beside her.

The wind blew a little more, it's strength growing. Michael felt like they weren't entirely alone in the office. But there were only two points of entry and escape. She shakes it off as trying to acclimate to a new place.

"What about when you became an adolescent?" Lorca asks her and that's when her smile fades.

" _How could you do this to her!"_ Michael remembers yelling, the pain of the memories resurfacing.

"I don't want to talk about that." She says, adamantly.

"Why not?" He presses further and she shakes her head.

"I just don't." She's not exactly pouting but she is putting her foot down.

"What is your relationship like with your father?" He asks, moving on to something else.

"We haven't been on speaking terms since I left for my freshman year." She tells him and he squints at her.

"In almost two years you haven't spoken?" He clarifies and she nods.

"I don't want to."

"Why not? What happened-"

"Nothing." She cuts in, rather harshly.

Lorca makes another clicking noise with his tongue. She's not exactly enjoying avoiding his questions, but there's something she likes about the way he tries to psychoanalyze her. She likes evading it, knocking him off his superior high horse.

"Michael, you don't just sever a relationship with your father overnight. What happened?"

"Even before Philippa died our relationship was difficult. This was always bound to happen eventually." She says, confident in her answer but the face he makes says that perhaps she shouldn't be; and it wasn't exactly a face he made either, it was the look in his eyes, how they pierced her like one of his deadly knives.

But what did he know? He didn't know her.

"You're deflecting." He points out and she shakes her head.

"I simply don't wish to talk about it. I didn't know you were on the clock." It came out flirtier than she meant it to.

He can't help but smirk.

Gabriel likes her, she's quick but her deflections will only get her so far and she's a terrible liar. He tries another tactic.

"Well," he says, holding his hands out and shrugging. "If you don't want to talk then I guess we're done." Rising he begins to make his way to the closet where he had placed her coat.

"That's it?" With those two words he knows he has her, but he still opens the door, reaching in and taking the fabric in his hands.

"You don't want to talk about your issues, I understand that. I shouldn't have pried." He goes back to her, standing over her smaller form in the chair that in the dim light and the setting sun seemed to be swallowing her whole.

 _She is... very beautiful,_ he finds himself thinking, is it himself thinking that? It's not the first time he's found a woman beautiful, either a patient or a young woman. He just doesn't act on it. He can't, not again.

 _Eva would be terribly jealous,_ it whispers to him.

"Issues?" Michael questions, still seated and not accepting her coat. He puts it under one arm.

"You have repressed emotions, possibly even memories, you're refusing to acknowledge. But that's your business, not mine." He says and he knows it's gnawing at her, getting under her skin.

His sudden lack of interest leaves her feeling... rejected.

"Fine." She says primly, her eyes moving to face the wall behind his desk.

"Fine?" He questions and she nods.

"I'll... talk." Her voice is softer this time though, she's trying to be polite again. It's almost endearing in a way.

Placing her coat on the back of the chair, he gazes down the back of her neck... long, dark, the fine tight curls there he itches to touch. But of course, he's a professional, and he refrains. She's not the only one who is suppressing plenty of things. The only difference is that he is consciously aware of it.

Seating himself once again opposite her, he crosses his legs.

"Tell me about your father." He says simply.

"As I said it's complicated," she begins, looking at the wall and then rug and her hands. "I wanted nothing more than to please him, to make him see he could be proud of me. I admired his intellect and his convictions. But all that changed when-" she stops, the words are forming but she can't say them.

"What?" He encourages.

"I was ten... I must have been. It was summer. I knew Vulcan back to front, up and down and sideways. I could walk to my dad's office blindfolded and backwards." She stops to smile fondly. "He called ahead and told mom he'd be late, there was a client he needed to talk to. I had drawn this silly family picture. He had promised to hang it in his office, which was so out of character for him. But he had forgotten it. I found it lying on his desk and I got on my bike, didn't tell my mother and peddled as fast as I could."

" _What are you doing here!"_ Sarek's voice, even now, risen in anger she had never heard before, made her visibly shake, even now as an adult.

"My father wasn't an abusive man. He was quiet, charming even, but... there was a coldness to him. But he never hurt my brother or I, or my mother."

"But on this day, he did?" Gabriel asks and she shakes her head.

"No. He did worse than that."

Michael can see the picture perfect crayon family she drew, ripped to pieces on chestnut hardwood. She was blue, Amanda had been pink, Sarek brown and Spock green.

"What did you see, Michael?" Gabriel asks, leaning forward.

"He was... Philippa was there, but... they were _together_." She puts emphasis on the last word, meeting his eye when she says it and he nods.

Of course, Michael didn't know Gabriel already knew some of this story from Philippa. It was her great guilt and her great shame. She had told him about an affair, but she never said it was with Sarek, the father of the girl whom she talked about at nauseum. Probably her way of protecting him or his family. Or Michael. But it all made sense now.

"He was hurting her." Michael adds quickly and at this Gabriel frowns.

"What do you mean?" He asks her, reaching for his notepad and pen.

"Attacking her, touching her and she was... it looked like she was in pain."

A few things came home in those moments for Gabriel. He hadn't realized just how repressed or naive Michael actually was. Not for the fault of her reclusive Vulcan upbringing, but perhaps because of the trauma the memory caused, she subconsciously chose to believe her father was hurting Philippa instead of the alternative.

"Michael," Gabriel begins gently. "You... you know what sex is, don't you?"

Michael blushes and hides her eyes, nodding awkwardly.

"I know what reproduction is, yes, thank you." She answers, almost in a bratty tone.

"Alright. So you know your father wasn't hurting her." He tells her, she rises from her seat and begins pacing.

"I know that _now_ but as a child I was terrified," she argues, he can't help but sympathize.

"He was so angry when he saw me. He yelled and yelled and Philippa tried to intervene but... then he tore up my picture and ordered me to go home and forget what I saw. And I _did_. I forgot for seven years. But every time I saw them there was this underlying resentment towards both of them. I still sought his validation and her motherly support, but I hated them at the same time."

Gabriel goes to her, takes her by the hand and has her sit down again. Kneeling down in front of her he puts a hand on the arm rest to steady himself.

"Was that your first introduction to sex, Michael?" He asks her carefully, she nods. "Have you ever experienced it yourself?"

"That's a personal question and technically we're not in session." She snaps. "I don't plan on having children so I don't see the point."

Christ, she's absolutely shielded herself. She lives inside a naive bubble. She doesn't want to think that her father and Philippa were having sex because there was a sexual attraction, she had chosen to believe he was assaulting her even though she knew that wasn't true.

"Michael, do you ever have sexual thoughts?" He asks her, moving back to his seat, he doesn't want to scare her with being too close. She's realizing she's alone with a grown man, she's already putting the pieces together that she shouldn't be here. But he feels compelled to help her.

 _Because she's beautiful or because you really do care?_ A voice asks him.

"I wouldn't know," she says with a shrug. "Sex seems rather pointless."

"To some who have no sexuality but we still haven't established if you do or don't. So, do you find men or women or both attractive?" He asks her, bluntly.

"I... I don't know." And he knows she's lying, she just doesn't want to admit to having the same carnal desires every human being does. She doesn't want to be like her father or Philippa.

"Yes you do." He says, not giving her an out. "Men or women or both?"

"Men." She relents.

"Alright, that's a start."

He writes down and undermines the important notes of their talk- not a session he has to remind himself.

"Why do you care?" She asks him point blank. For a moment he has no answer but hides it behind a sigh and caps his pen.

 _How will you bullshit your way through this one?_

"It concerns me, Michael, that you're a grown woman of twenty one who within the last two years had a traumatic memory resurface and you refuse to face it." He answers.

It wasn't a lie. It was concerning. People who didn't deal with the resurfacing of repressed memories didn't cope well with personal issues in their lives.

There were rare cases of people who could, but in Michael's case she simply refused to see facts. That her father hadn't been hurting Philippa, that they had made a mistake in giving into their base, sexual desire for one another.

It wasn't good for Michael.

"Why do good people do terrible things?" She asks suddenly, her voice wavering. He shakes his head slowly.

"I don't think they mean to." He offers but she chews the inside of her cheek.

"Then why did he do that to my mother?" She asks.

"People have desires, Michael, despite the love they have for others. People can't help it-"

He stops when she muffles a sob. He gives her a moment, she doesn't cry, there are no tears. It's as if she's in physical pain. Gabriel knows that oftentimes emotional pain can manifest as physical.

He approaches her slowly, gently touching her shoulder.

She removes her hand from her mouth, her lips moist. Michael takes a few deep breaths before speaking again,

"I don't want to think about these things anymore." She says, her shoulders shaking and slumped. He nods.

"We don't have to. Let me take you back to your-"

She grips his hand and he stiffens, her fingers are wet from her mouth, her bottom lip trembles and... her doe eyes cut him to pieces.

"Is there somewhere here I can stay?" She asks. Once again Michael Burnham proved ever the contradiction: she didn't trust him but sought comfort and shelter.

 _You're going to take her back to her hotel,_ he thinks, because that's the right and moral thing to do.

 _No you won't,_ another voice compels him.

"Come with me." He says, ignoring his better judgement and his conscious.

With her disclosure and her revelation of her repressed memory has come exhaustion. Michael isn't used to sharing let alone showing her emotions. Her adoptive mother, Amanda, had always encouraged it. But growing up in Vulcan, Michael was discouraged everywhere from revealing what she felt.

It had come so easily to Spock. Michael had envied that about him. But envy was an emotion wasted on her, at least that's what Sarek would've said...

She feels Director Lorca bring her to the elevator, he presses the number 4 and the elevator begins to descend, she rocks a little, unsteady on her feet, but he holds her elbow to keep her set in place.

"There's an on duty night nurse for the few live-in residents we have." He explains when the doors open, he lets her exit first. He watches the way her body sways under her clothes.

The light is soft, he refuses to go fluorescent.

Coming to a countertop with a clipboard lying flat he writes something then hands her the pen.

"Just a formality." He assures, she takes the pen and signs her name where there's an X.

"Where's the nurse?" She asks and he sighs.

"Looks like she's on her break. Come on, this room over here." He says and she follows him down another hallway, three doors on either side labeled 1-6. He opens one marked 2 and flicks on the light.

It's a simple set-up: a twin bed, a towel on a table, a small restroom.

"I'll leave a message for the night nurse, her name is Jill." He says and he stares while she takes in her surroundings, clutching her purse. "You don't have to be afraid."

"I'm... I'm not." She lies but he lets her have it.

"The pipes down here are a little noisy, but don't let that bother you." He says, letting her have her lie but assuring her she had nothing to fear.

Michael still stands there, near the door. She looks flighty, like a cornered animal. Instead of what he wants to do, which is reach out and touch her, he puts his hands in his pockets.

"Come here, don't be shy." He says kindly, she visibly relaxes and enters the room fully.

"Thank you." She says finally and he breathes a small sigh of relief. He knows why it sends endorphins galloping through him when she thanks him. Why it inflates his ego. Because under the delicate light her skin glows and her eyes shimmer.

"Get some rest. You might not feel it now, but there were some breakthroughs tonight." He leaves her with that, closing the door behind himself. Michael sinks into the bed, toeing off her shoes one at a time.

Lying on her side she pulls the white blanket over herself and closes her eyes. For a moment she's annoyed she spent money on another night at the bed and breakfast. But she still has her savings. Her phone vibrates. A text from Amanda.

 _Please, just let me know you're safe._

Sighing, she texts back:

 _Fine. Just needed to get away. I love you._

She ignores the following flurry of messages from Amanda and eventually one from Sarek. He demands she return home, that she shouldn't ignore her internship or her studies.

Michael normally spent her summers between semesters studying at the university or interning elsewhere. But not this summer. She wouldn't come home, she wouldn't speak to Sarek.

Michael was too exhausted from everything that happened to even realize it was the first time Sarek had spoken to her in any capacity in nearly two years.

Drifting off, there was a momentary tap. She keeps her eyes closed, just the pipes. Another tap. Eyes still closed she rolls over onto her other side, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She reaches out to the bedside light, flicking the switch, plunging the room into darkness.

 _Tap, tap, tap..._

Michael ignores it. Leaky pipes, noisy pipes, it's irritating but if she could sleep through Spock's snoring on camping trips she could sleep through noisy-

 _SMASH!_

Bolting upright, she presses a hand to her heart, her other seeking out the light switch. The room illuminates once more.

 _Tap, tap, tap..._

"What?" She says aloud, throwing the blanket aside she stands near a small window, the street is empty. Grounding herself and remembering she's not afraid of the dark and doesn't believe in ghosts she goes to the door, opening it. Peeking down the hall she hears footsteps.

In her sock covered feet she follows the noise. The tapping is above her then beside her then below her. As if something were crawling through the walls.

"Hello?" She calls out, her voice shaky and she chastises herself for it. "Anyone there?"

She wonders if it's Director Lorca, perhaps he slammed a door on his way out. Could he have hurt himself?

Michael is rounding a corner when the tapping grows in speed and pitch, until the walls are in sync with the floor and the ceiling. As if everything is closing in around her, the lights flicker for a moment.

Someone grabs her elbow and she slaps a hand over her mouth.


	6. Fixation: V

V

"Miss. Burnham?" Michael yelps and jumps away from the hand on her arm. The owner of said hand belongs to a young woman, her name tag says _Jill_. Michael feels her heart thudding terribly against her chest. "I'm sorry I scared you." Jill says quickly, keeping her distance from Michael.

"You're the night nurse?" She asks and Jill nods.

"More like overnight receptionist. I was listening to a podcast. The pipes freak me out." Jill tells her and she removes the earbuds. "Director Lorca found me and told me you'd be spending the night."

Michael breathes deeply, calming her nerves and herself. Good, someone else was hearing the noise. At least she wasn't going crazy. And the walls aren't really caving in.

"Why are they so loud?" Michael asks Jill, the young woman shrugs, a blonde curl falling over one shoulder.

"Age, I suspect. This place used to be an asylum so everyone makes up stories about it being ghosts." Jill explains, she goes to her position at her desk and Michael follows. "Coffee?"

Michael nods, she doesn't think she'll sleep much tonight anyway, even if Director Lorca was attempting to be kind.

"Are any of the stories true?" Michael asks and Jill goes a little whiter than she already was. She picks up three packets of _Sweet 'N' Low_ , smacking them with her forefinger before tearing the tops off, letting them fall in harmony into her creamy coffee.

"A couple," Jill says, her voice lowering. "There's the one about the world war two POW, he was living here when the building first became apartments, he hung himself on the roof after killing two neighbors, raping a one of them and killing a disabled boy," Jill shivers as she regails Michael of the story. "Then, well, obviously there's Ezzy."

Michael frowns.

"Don't tell me you don't know about Ezzy." Jill says, leaning her elbows on the counter.

Michael shakes her head.

"I'm not from around here. Who was Ezzy?"

Jill sets her coffee down, forgetting it. She was chilled when she spoke about the POW but she seems eager to tell Michael about this other ghost.

"She's a local heroin, or... villain. Depends on who is telling the story," Jill begins. "Back in 1891 Ezzy was considered a spinster at the age of 23. According to the town legend, she had no interest in getting married or having children, real woman ahead of her time. Supposedly the story goes that a wealthy doctor came to town, he first erected this building," Jill gestures around herself with her dainty hands.

"Ezzy became a nurse here in the asylum and the doctor fell madly in love with her. His origin is a little more vague; some say he was Irish others say he was German. Doesn't matter. Ezzy kept refusing to marry him. All she wanted was to keep working but he threatened that if she didn't marry him he would fire her and her family would be destitute since her father killed himself years before and she was left to take care of her ailing mother and two sisters."

Jill pauses, sipping her coffee, she dips her finger in to remove a tiny black fly... she flicks it and continues drinking, causing Michael to shudder.

"Well, on their wedding night, the doctor told Ezzy he planned to ship her family off somewhere else so he could have her all to himself. He was incredibly jealous of anyone who had her affection more than him. Ezzy tried to run away but he ordered his men to set her mother's house on fire. Everyone died. But he was so rich and powerful no in the town did anything and Rourke was desperate for a hospital. They were married for a month when he was found stabbed to death, in the _face_ eighteen times."

Michael cringes at the imagery. That was so much rage behind one knife, inside one person.

"They identified him by the crest on his lapel." Jill says, her tone giving away that perhaps the UNH student was more interested in these macabre stories than she appeared. "Poor Ezzy, they locked her away. Nine months later she gave birth but she rejected the baby. It was lost, according to legend. Drifting from orphanage to orphanage."

"What became of Ezzy?" Michael asks.

"Killed herself not long after the baby was born. She pretended she was well, maybe she actually was, but when the orderly took her for a walk during a mild winter she ran from them. She ran into the river and was swept away. They found her body in Durham, half eaten by coyotes."

Michael hears the faint tapping return and she feels a chill run down her spine. She's tired again but can't bring herself to sleep. She isn't afraid of ghosts. She's not afraid of them because they aren't real.

"Eventually the asylum shut down. The staff up and left all together one day, like they planned it. They couldn't take it anymore, I guess," Jill says sadly. "It must be a terribly difficult thing to have had to deal with so many ill people. They shipped the rest of the residents off to Danvers."

Jill continues to sip her coffee and Michael can't bring herself to drink her own. The memory of the dead fly swirls in her mind...

"I think I'll turn in." Michael says, her hand running down the length of the countertop.

"Sweet dreams." Jill says, and Michael wants to point out the irony but refrains. She's trying to be polite.

Returning to her room she gets under the covers again. Jill's stomach clenching story still fresh in her mind. She leaves the lights on. Under the covers she texts Amanda.

 _I promise to be careful. I love you._

Michael doesn't know why she sent it, maybe it was Jill's story about sad Ezzy. Maybe it was the POW on the roof, dangling there dead for all eternity. Maybe it was that the tapping pipes didn't chill her the same way they did the first time. That she has to keep reminding herself she doesn't believe in ghosts, when it's getting harder to keep up with that belief.

Michael doesn't remember falling asleep. But when she wakes the door is open a crack, sunlight is drifting in through her windows. There's a note beside her on the bed...

Opening it, she doesn't recognize the handwriting, not that she would in the digital age or residing in a town of strangers.

 _Michael, I've taken the liberty of informing Fran at Mulligan's Sleepy Bed and Breakfast you'll be staying here for the time being. Don't worry about your bill, call it doctor's courtesy. Your things are by the restroom. I will be out all morning on meetings and housecalls. If you need anything, Ash will be available to you._

 _-G. Lorca_

Michael isn't offended he took a personal liberty, however asking would've been polite. She changes her clothes after showering in the cramped shower. She would have preferred a bath. Finding Ash was easy, she simply asked the morning receptionist. He was in a circle of people, all sitting at attention and listening in a wide room.

"After waking up in a dumpster, broke and extremely single," the room laughs quietly in unison. "I stumbled in here," Ash gestures to the building around them as if it were a holy place. "Director Lorca took a chance and gave me a new lease on life. Now, I'm paying it forward. Doesn't mean every day I don't think about how great another hit would be, the rush and the excitement of buying and shooting up in my room. I think about it every night when I go to bed. And every morning I wake up I'm that much prouder that I'm sitting here alive with you guys. My arms are track free, my mind is clear and open. I'm ready to give as much as I've received."

The group claps and Michael waits in a corner, listening but she feels like an intruder. When the group ends their session she goes to him, he's picking up pamphlets and putting away chairs.

"That was beautiful," she tells him, feeling her cheeks warm under the unfamiliar weight of the words. "You've got a real talent for this."

"It's better than working a dead end job, that's for sure." He says and she helps him stack metal chairs, wanting to feel useful. Showing him she can be useful. She's never had any experience with addicts before, it's unfamiliar territory like everything else in Rourke. She doesn't want to make herself look like some fledgling introvert.

 _That's what you are, Michael,_ she reminds herself.

"Director Lorca said I was to be at your disposal, show you around give you the lay of the land." He explains to her and she nods.

"I feel like I've been roped into this." She admits to him, nervously. He shrugs.

"Don't be. If he wants you around there's a reason. The man doesn't do anything half assed or without a plan."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Don't lie to him. He can tell and he hates it." Ash says, brushing her shoulder with his hand, her stomach comes to life with butterflies.

"Come on, I'll give you a tour."

The top floor was sectioned off from the rest as Director Lorca's personal office, small living space if he worked too late and a small lab.

"Why do the numbers on the elevator go to ten if there's only three floors?" She asks Ash as he leads her down a stairwell instead of taking the lift. He smiles.

"Another one of Director Lorca's eccentricities." He says, brushing it off. But something nags at Michael she can't quite explain, but soon the thought disappears as Ash leads her to a small gym, complete with a pool.

"The spa is a little smaller but the residents love it, gets them to really relax and open up." He tells her, he shows her the library. "This used to be the criminally insane wing, all the worst of the worst ended up here. Now, it's full of books about the worst of the worst." She chuckles at his way of making her feel comfortable with humor.

Michael brushes the spines of the books with her fingertips, feeling their age. She's swept up in the moment of wondering who else has held these tomes, who had read them, poured hours over them in study. She pulls a book from the shelf, not paying attention to it's cover, simply folding it over in her hands.

"What's with the tapping at night?" She asks him, unable to get it off her mind.

"Oh, that's just Ezzy," he says jokingly. "But really, sometimes the night nurse gets cold and turns on the heat and it makes a tapping sound. Sometimes it's just hot water. You get used to it."

Ash reaches out for the book she chose at random.

"Lord Byron," he comments, sitting down on the armrest of a chair, she stands over him. "You like poetry?"

"Some." She answers, pocketing her hands and shrugging but it's a lie. He flips to a random page,

" _And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,_

 _So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,_

 _The smiles that win, the tints that glow,_

 _But tell of days in goodness spent,_

 _A mind at peace with all below,_

 _A heart whose love is innocent."_

Michael sighs, Byron was a classic indeed. She understood the appeal.

"That's a guy who loved a lot." Ash says, none too eloquently. It almost ruins the moment, but his boyish smile leaves her almost breathless. Another blush paints her cheeks rosy red.

Ash hands her back the book and she runs her hand over the cover.

"Is it ok if I keep this for a little while?" She asks and he nods.

"Just write it in the ledger." He points to a large book, it's columns half empty. Michael supposes with ebooks and Kindles the library is rarely used. It's a shame really, nothing feels better in your hands than a real book.

Of course, Michael had shied away from such passionate tales, the likes of Lord Byron were a foreign concept to her. A girl in high school had once given her a copy of _Lady Chatterley's Lover_ as a joke. She never read it, donating to the school library instead.

"Well, that's most of the institute," Ash says rising from his place on the armrest. "Hungry?"

Michael nods and he shows her to cafeteria, nurses, office workers and patients dressed in their own clothes fill the white space.

"I notice that none of the patients wear hospital gowns," Michael says to Ash as they move their trays down the assembly line.

"Director Lorca likes making sure the patients who come here, and the few who spend a couple days with us, are comfortable and aren't made to feel like they're sick." Ash explains.

"But... aren't they, in a way?" She asks and he shrugs.

"The institute isn't like other places. People come here basically to clean and clear their minds. We offer a better and healthier way of life." He says and Michael can't help but feel like it's a parroting of what Director Lorca has already told her. Like he's trying to sell her something.

On the flipside, it's Ash's job to keep people coming back. How else would the place stay afloat?

"He does a lot of work with addicts?" Michael asks, hoping the question isn't too personal. If it is, Ash doesn't act like it.

"Yeah. He has a lot sympathy for people like me. Probably because-" Ash stops himself, he makes a face as if he's almost revealed something he shouldn't have. Of course, it only increases Michael's curiosity.

"What?" She asks him and he shakes his head.

"Forget it. Look, cherry pie today." He says, terrible at deflecting but Michael lets it go.

They're halfway done eating when Sylvia Tilly shows up.

"Michael, Director Lorca wants to know if you'll meet him in his office." She says, smiling at them.

"Of course," Michael says, rising from her seat. She holds her out to Ash, he accepts it hesitantly. "Thank you."


	7. Fixation: VI

V

Arriving at Director Lorca's office, there is music playing. He's at his desk, shirt sleeves once again rolled up, this time he's wearing glasses. Michael frowns, it doesn't exactly age him but it humanizes him in a way.

It's a song she doesn't recognize, it has a slow rhythm and sounds old, scratchy like a record player but it's coming from a speaker somewhere she can't find.

 _You be good to me_

 _I'll be good to you_

 _We'll be together_

 _We'll see each other..._

"You like Al Green?" Lorca's voice cuts through the music and she turns back to him. He goes to an iPod console and presses pause, she almost misses it.

"I don't know." She answers honestly. He notices the book sticking out of her coat pocket. He reaches forward and she freezes, he leans into her personal space, the book lifted from her pocket. She can smell his neck for the briefest of seconds...

"Byron, huh?" He says, his face a look of surprise. " _The unconquerable individual to the end, Manfred gives his soul neither to heaven nor hell, only to death_."

He quotes without looking at the book, simply staring at the closed bundle of old pages in his hand.

Michael smiles dumbly, wringing her hands. She never thought she would be quoted Byron more than once in a single day. She feels silly, she has no idea what the words mean. She knows their definition, but she has never read Byron. She cannot begin to comprehend its meaning.

"You've never read it, have you?" Lorca says, picking up on it. " _Manfred_ , I highly recommend it, actually," he pauses moving to a bookshelf, she follows him. He crouches low and finds what he's looking for. "Here." He hands her an old book, a copy of _Manfred_ by Lord Byron.

"Thank you." She answers and he gives her the other, she places them one on top of the other.

"It's not required reading." He assures her when he notices the look on her face. She feels her limbs tingle.

"On the contrary," she says. "I like homework." Once again her voice takes on a flirty tone.

There is a pause, but it is not awkward, but it is broken when a car honks its horn. He goes to the window and lowers it, letting the light in a little more.

Lorca gestures that she sit and he takes his position opposite her again.

"You're sure you want to continue?" He asks her and honestly Michael isn't sure. But she knows she doesn't want to leave. He told they made "breakthroughs" last night. She doesn't exactly feel it and she can't figure out what he hopes to achieve. This wasn't what she came to Rourke for.

"Yes." She answers despite her insecurities.

"Ok. If you don't mind I just would like to recap," he says and she nods. "You discovered your father was having an affair when you were a child, suppressed it, am I correct?"

Michael nods again, her hands on her lap, she feels nervous. It almost feels like an extremely personal job interview. She had never told anyone about what she had seen when she was a child. Director Lorca had been the first person to ever hear her tell it, exactly how she remembered it.

"Can I ask you why you feel guilty about Philippa Georgiou's death?" He asks her, his tone had shifted from amiable to blunt rather quickly.

"Who said I was?" She parries, he takes his pen and fiddles with it between his fingers.

"Why else did you come here?" He counters.

"I told you-"

"But there's always a deeper reason, Michael." He interjects. "Tell me the reason."

Michael shakes her head.

"I don't see the point." She says, his eye twitches slightly. She's getting under his skin, she can tell. Then again, she had always been good at that when it came to people in authority. She didn't actively annoy them, it just ended up that way nine times out of ten.

"Michael," he begins after a time. "What I do here is unlock the motive behind the guilt. You came here because you wanted to know what Philippa Georgiou and I talked about. But you're not telling me _why_ you want to know. You expect me to ignore that minute detail?"

Michael swallows audibly.

"We had a fight." She answers finally, knowing when she was beaten and more importantly when she was caught.

"About what you saw?" He asks, feeling like they were getting somewhere.

"Yes." She says.

"Did something trigger the memory?"

Lorca scribbles something down, writing while still looking at her, but it's at an awkward angle. She assumes he's the only one who can decipher his handwriting. Funny, there wasn't an angle in the note he left her...

"I was at the school giving tours to freshmen," she recounts. "My parents were there and of course Philippa. There... there was something in the way they interacted. He made her laugh, she..." Michael touches her own shoulder, miming what she had seen. "Touched him, he leaned into it. The way her face looked, the way he looked at her just... made it come back."

Lorca leans forward in his chair.

"How did it make you feel, Michael?" He asks her.

"Angry," she answers, her eyes filling with tears. "I was... so angry. I cornered her in her office and just started yelling as if it was seven years earlier. As if I had never silenced myself. It all felt brand new."

Reaching out, Gabriel touches her trembling wrist.

"It's ok." He says gently.

"I'm sorry," she says, keeping her tears from falling. "I'm not normally this emotional."

"Maybe that's part of the issue." He says, finally removing his hand from her, he's already lingered too long.

"I wasn't raised to show many emotions, if any." She tells him. "Father is very strict. He sees emotions as a waste of time. Yet he married the child of hippies." Gabriel laughs at that and it warms her chest.

"So, you finally let your feelings that you'd been harboring for seven years bare to Philippa, she gets into her car and... now we're here." Gabriel says and Michael nods.

"I just wanted to know if she blamed me, if she was blaming me. It's my fault she got into her car. If I had just... conducted myself more appropriately maybe she'd still be alive." Michael says, her guilt coming to the front and her shame opening like a scabbing wound.

"We talked about your lack of sexual experience last night," Gabriel says, and he internally hates the way it sounds. Hates that the idea of her any sexual capacity is... enticing. "Do you think this is connected to the trauma you witnessed as a child?"

Michael thinks on it, she hadn't really thought about it in that way before, not completely. Perhaps it had all been connected to that day. With suppressing the memory she possibly suppressed other parts of herself as well.

The truth was, she didn't like talking about sex. It made her uncomfortable. It's not what good girls did. Amanda didn't give her the talk until she was eight and even then it was under Sarek's strict guidance.

Wasps didn't like talking about sex or money. Except that they didn't have enough money and the sex was lifeless.

"I think Amanda would've preferred a more... thorough education in the matter," Michael begins. "She always encouraged me to date. But I... I couldn't stop thinking about how angry he had been that day I had seen them. How _wrong_ it looked."

Gabriel understood Michael's clashing feelings towards the subject. On the one hand she was aware it was necessary for reproduction, on the other she was entirely naive as to why human beings simply have intercourse because it feels good. She was naive in the sense that she didn't understand human nature to that end.

But sex was as natural a thing as breathing, eating and sleeping. Even certain mammals in the wild had figured out it that is simply felt good to do.

"Are you afraid of sex?" He asks her and she flinches at the word. "I can call it something else if you prefer but I'd rather you get comfortable with saying it."

Michael sighs and assures him he is more than able to use the word at his "leisure".

"I wouldn't say afraid," she begins. "More like... I would rather be doing something else." He laughs again and nods his head in understanding.

"Like what?" He can't help but ask.

"Studying, reading, going for a walk. I feel like sex too often complicates things. My roommate in college would talk endlessly about it. I don't know why people are so obsessed with it if it's so _normal_. The way she talked, you'd think she was on a drug."

Gabriel wants to tell it is like a drug, with the right person, the right setting, the right everything... it can be addicting. That some people do suffer from a sexual addiction. He wants to tell her what could feel good... but he quickly stamps that thought away.

"Is it?" He doesn't realize she's asking him for a moment. He clears his throat and shifts in his chair.

"Depends." He answers simply. But she doesn't relent. It's not her fault, she doesn't know he's slowly growing more attracted to her by the second.

"On what?" She questions further.

"On... everything. Mood, partner... there are plenty of variables that go into it." He explains, attempting to make it as clinical and unsexy as possible.

"But if you can't say for sure if it'll be good or bad why take the risk?" She asks and he almost groans. He wants to tell her he could make it good for her...

"Because it's not always the actual sex that is the pleasurable part," he says. "Sometimes it's the build up to it."

"Like what?" She asks, genuinely curious and he thinks he's gone completely mad for a moment. He's thankful for the notepad resting in his lap because she has no idea what her simple questions are doing to him. Coupled with the fact she's stunningly gorgeous doesn't help either.

"Well, the chase, not literally of course," he says and she smiles. "But, the build up and the anticipation if she'll... give you the green light, in a manner of speaking. That's always part of the thrill. Wondering, hoping, aching that they'll say yes. Flirting is a whole other ball game. Sometimes that's just for fun with neither party really willing to commit but you go back and forth anyway."

"A mating ritual," she says dismissively. "Again, why waste the time if there is no chance it will... culminate?"

"Because it's exciting and fun." He answers, he decides it's time to switch gears. "Was Ash helpful today?" He hates bringing the dashing, former addict up but... he is a good kid and he's good at his job. Despite the jealousy Gabriel doesn't yet want to admit to, he has a soft spot for Ash.

"He's very nice," she says and he notices the way her eyes bat and she looks away. "We get along very well."

"Good." He answers, clipped and short. "Did you sleep well? I realize I didn't ask before."

Michael swallows and shakes her head.

"The pipes are very loud." She answers and he chuckles.

"You get used to it." He assures her.

"Jill told me about Ezzy the ghost." She explains and he rises, placing his notepad on the desk. He hates how the night staff get off on telling morbid stories to the few residents that _Discovery_ houses. It's never driven them away but it always comes up.

Sometimes you can't escape the history of a place.

"Town folklore, nothing more." He says, turning back to her, leaning against his desk.

"Terrible story," she says, her thumb brushing over the spines of the books in her lap. "You don't believe it do you?"

"It's public record what happened. Of course, everyone in town will tell you something different. Sometimes the child was a demon, sometimes her body was never found and she spent the rest of her days wandering the forests of Durham eating berries and sacrificing squirrels to Satan." He says and he feels the bite of what only town gossip and folklore can cause.

"Still, it's silly. Stabbing her husband eighteen times in the face." She says flippantly, rising from her chair.

"She didn't stab him in the face," he says with a small laugh and for a moment Michael is reassured that the story was mostly fake and incredibly exaggerated. "She stabbed him in the neck so many times with a letter open that it popped off like a cork. Then she burned the head in the fireplace while communing with the devil."

Michael pauses, makes an "oh" face and he lets the story lay where it is. She expects him to start laughing again but he doesn't.

"At least that's what I was told when I got here. Get outside, it's a beautiful day. The lilacs are almost blooming." He says, rounding his desk seating himself.

Michael leaves, disturbed by the new addition to the story. She had thought it would've taken more rage than a normal person was capable of to stab someone in the face, let alone stab them until their head came off.

She did indeed venture outdoors, with Ash's company of course. He brought his car around to the front of the building and bid her get in. They listened to music she was unfamiliar with. Some strange reggae pop fusion band, she didn't care for it. She wished he would play something similar to what Director Lorca had on when she arrived in his office.

"This is _Montgomery Forest_." He says, parking the car in a dirt parking lot. The forest, or nature preserve, overlooked a bridge and the river that flowed from _Rourke_ to _Portsmouth_ and deep into the _Berwicks_ of Maine.

Michael breathes in the smell of wood, plantlife and the river. It's little chilly even in the sun, there's seagulls and other birds flying around hoping for a fresh fish to devour.

Despite the emotions of earlier in Director Lorca's office, she did feel surprisingly well. She felt like a weight had been lifted off of her. She still didn't know what Philippa had said to him, what her final words had been. He was protecting her, either her memory or something else.

But Michael felt, for the first time in almost two years, like she wasn't a bad person. She had been carrying the chains of what had been events set into motion because of her, that they were her fault. That the terrible outcome of Philippa getting into her car and driving away hurt and emotional were somehow Michael's fault.

She had upset Philippa, but she didn't kill her. And for the first time Michael was seeing it wasn't her fault the woman had died. It couldn't have been.

"How was your session?" Ash asks her, picking up rocks and skipping them along the shore.

"Session implies I'm a patient, I'm not." She tells him. "But... it was eye opening."

"That's good. That's what it's all about. Closure with yourself, with others. It's why I come to work every day."

Michael liked Ash, he wasn't like guys in Vulcan. He wasn't waspy, uptight or squeeky clean. He had a past, he had overcome his demons. He wasn't perfectly well read or even worldly, but there was a definable charm about him that she enjoyed. He was nice.

"Jill tell you any ghost stories?" He asks her as they walk along the path of _Montgomery Forest._ She nods.

"Oh, she has much to say," Michael says and Ash laughs, then he takes her hand as they cross a narrow man made bridge. She feels the butterflies again, the way her body tenses and automatically relaxes at the same time. "The POW and Ezzy."

"Ah, they're staples of _Rourke_ that's for sure." He says, releasing her hand but it feels almost reluctant.

"Director Lorca added a bit more color to the tale," she tells him. "Apparently the evil doctor was decapitated and his severed head burned."

Ash sputters.

"He told you that?" He asks with a laugh. "Wow," he runs a hand through his hair. "Man, I knew he had a dark side but he hates ghost stories, especially that one. I mean, I can't blame him."

Michael feels like once again Ash has said something he shouldn't have.

"Why's that?" She asks after a moment, but Ash simply keeps walking pretending he hasn't heard her. But Michael can't let this one lie. "Ash? Why doesn't he like that story?"

Ash leans against a birch, a few leafs fall to the ground, green but too weak to remain on the branch. He picks up a fallen piece of birch bark.

"He's just... he doesn't like 'em." He says, his excuse gaunt.

"Because...?"

Ash swallows and continues to fidget with the bark, she takes it from him gently.

"Tell me." She says softly.

"Alright, but, don't mention it to him." He says and she promises. "His great grandfather was supposedly Ezzy's long lost child. Her maiden name was Esme Ruthanne Walker. But... her _married_ name, and the child's name that was on the birth certificate, was Esme Ruthanne Lorca. It's why he's not really from around here, they relocated out west somewhere. The child was passed around from home to home. Nobody wanted him because of what his mom did. All that stuff about her worshipping Satan? There's some truth to it. There was a coven that was around these parts up until forty years ago until they all up and left for some reason. There's still this ratty shack up on _Wolf Tooth Lake_ where they used to eat live animals and do weird sacrifices and shit, kids just go there to make out and graffiti now."

Michael furrows her brow, then her features softens. But Ash is clearly chilled by the story.

"That is a terrible family legacy, if it is true." She says and she continues to walk, still holding the bark.

"Town folklore though, Michael, you can't always believe it. Everyone tells it differently every time. Either way, there was a woman named Esme Walker and she did have a tragic life. Whether or not she's connected in someway to Director Lorca is irrelevant, he's a good man. I promise." Ash says to her.

They come to a clearing and the edge of the water is suddenly feet from them, it's a short drop if one were to fall in but she can't tell how deep the water is. Ash sits on the dry ground and she joins him.

"I like it here," she confides in him, their hands on the ground close together but not touching. "It's so different from what I'm used to."

"You think you would stay?" He asks. She smiles, looking out over the water as a bird glides over it.

"Maybe. I doubt that will go over well with my parents." She says with a light chuckle, the bark resting over her thigh, like a glove.

"I like you." He tells her, and she knows he's not just talking about her as a person. He's telling her likes her as more than a friend. The idea scares her. A guy has never said that to her. She's avoided personal and intimate relationships so far in her life. But Ash was nice, handsome... maybe Director Lorca was right. Maybe intimacy wasn't such a bad thing.

Michael braves a look at Ash, he's staring back at her. The next thing she knows his hand touches her cheek. Her knee jerk reaction is to pull away, avoid the way his dark eyes and skin are alluring. The way his hand is warm and soft on her skin.

Ash leans in and all of the sudden all of the blood rushes to her eardrums and she can't breathe. When his lips make contact it's not as she expected. They're as soft as his hands, he's simply pressing his mouth to hers. After a moment he leans back an inch or two, their eyes still connected.

When he leans in a second time she meets him halfway, the experience not as terrible or invasive as she thought it would be and she finds herself touching his face as well. The stubble on his cheek is coarse under her palm and his mustache scratches her upper lip but it's not unwelcome.

Michael is enjoying the kiss, until she feels his tongue at the seam of her lips and she tears herself away.

"I'm sorry." He says quickly. She gets to her feet, the bark falling onto the ground is forgotten by her as she begins walking away. Her legs feel like jello and her heart is pounding in her stomach.

"I want to go back." She tells him and he follows her, catching her hand.

"Hey, it's ok. I'm sorry." He says again and she can't look at him.

Perhaps it's the rush of being kissed for the first time or for some reason it dawns on her that Sarek texted her for the first time in nearly two years. But she wants to talk to Amanda, she wants to see Spock. She wants to go home. But she can't yet.

"Just... please, take me back." She tells him, following the trail back to the parking lot.

When they return to the institute she makes a beeline for her room. She pulls a pillow to her chest, her body is full of adrenaline and feelings she's never felt before. Was it desire or fear? If she had liked it so much would she have pulled away?

Michael makes the decision to call her mother, as most girls do when they've kissed a boy for the first time. She's never felt more like a late bloomer as the phone rings again and again.

"Michael?" Amanda says over the phone, relieved and surprised.

"Hey, mom," Michael says, letting her body go weightless and dropping back onto the bed, bouncing a little.

"Sweetie, please come home." Amanda says, she can hear the paint mixing in the background.

"I will. What are you working on?" Michael asks, her heart rate beginning to return to normal.

"What do you think? After the week you've put me through there's going to be a lot of red, missy." Amanda says, using her not so stern mom voice. Michael can't help but smile. She can smell the art room now, the smell of canvas and oils, Sinatra crooning in her mother's ear, incense and probably a recreational herbal drug.

"How's dad?" Michael finally asks.

"Furious, in own waspy way." Amanda says, with a chuckle.

"He texted me last night." Michael tells her.

"I know. We had a long talk." Amanda says and Michael wants to ask if she knows... if she ever knew about Sarek and Philippa. In the near two years since Philippa's death, had she ever wondered why Michael had suddenly been so angry at both of them and never at herself?

Michael used to think her mother was too much a free spirit to notice those sorts of things. But with time, and growing up and maturing, Michael had come to realize her mother was far more intelligent than the wasps of Vulcan gave her credit for. She might have been a pot smoking spawn of hippies, but she wasn't stupid.

"Mom, I'll come home, I promise. I just need to figure some things out first." Michael tells her and she hears the smear of paint from a thick brush over the white canvas.

"Are you safe?" Amanda asks and Michael groans.

"No. I'm being held against my will by satanists." She jokes and Amanda laughs.

"Well, they do have their own personal sense of style that I can't deny is very in right now."

Michael could always be more humorous when it came to her mother. Despite not being related by blood they were very similar in that regard.

"Met anyone interesting?" Her mother asks and Michael swallows.

"Someone." She answers curtly. There's a pause, her mother knows. She just instinctively knows it's a man.

"Is he cute?" Amanda asks, coyly.

"Mom..."

"Tall, handsome? Fat and ugly?" Amanda continues her line of questioning. She should be imagining Ash, but she's not.

"We kissed."

"Oh my god!" Michael has to move the phone away from her ear. "Honey, I'm so happy for you."

"Look, I gotta go." Michael excuses because now she's entering a realm of conversation she's never had with her mother.

"Was it good?" Amanda asks anyway.

"I have nothing to compare it to but... it was ok." Michael says, finally giving in.

"Uh-oh. If there weren't fireworks it wasn't good." Amanda says knowingly.

"There were sparklers, does that count?" Michael asks and her mother giggles.

"It's a start."

"I love you mom, gotta go."

"I love you, too. Be safe."

Michael hangs up. A text arrives seconds later, it's from her mother: a kissy face emoji. She rolls her eyes.

Mothers.


	8. Fixation: VII

VII

 _She's coming towards him, she's unkempt and naked... he's frozen. He can't move. It's freezing cold and she doesn't have the same voice. It's nonsense, what she says and as soon as the words leave her mouth he forgets them. It's inappropriate when she touches him, when he touches her... they'll be caught at any second. He touches her, he pins her down, he ravages her and-_

Gabriel jerks awake in his bed, covered by the quilt that suddenly feels too constricting, like a cobra wrapped around him. He reaches for his glasses and then his water. He rests against the headboard, his hard on a reminder of his shameful dream.

Half nightmare, half dream, he tells himself. She's been haunting his dreams since she showed up. It always ends the same... fucking her savagely on any surface he can find.

He punishes himself with a cold shower, wishing the dream would disappear like all his others that didn't involve her. But like the ones where she appeared to him, this one stayed.

And he couldn't fucking help himself, giving in and turning the water back to a reasonable warmth, his erection still not fading any time soon he does something about it instead of ignoring it or willing it away.

When he finishes he's fully awake, and the shame and guilt return. He wasn't the type of man who chased virginal young women in their early twenties who knew next to nothing about sex.

As Gabriel dresses for the day he replays a recently recorded session, he likes to listen to them alone, he likes to take her voice home with him... and he's disturbed by his own behavior,

" _How was the rest of your day yesterday?"_ He hears himself ask, Michael's reply is slow.

" _Eventful."_ Is all she says, he asks her why. " _Ash Tyler showed me_ Montgomery Forest _."_ Her voice says, the feedback from the street traffic and wind muffle Gabriel's own response.

" _He kissed me."_ His fist clenches even now, even though he's already had the knowledge for a day, even though it doesn't matter because he won't do anything about it. Even if every time he sees her wants to tell her about all of the ways he wants to kiss her, _where_ he wants to kiss her.

" _How did that make you feel?"_ He hears himself ask, he applauds himself for having restrained his jealousy.

" _I don't know. I felt... like I was drunk for a second but I've never been drunk. It was soft, wet- are you alright?"_

Gabriel groans, that had been when he dropped his pen like an idiot.

" _Fine. Continue, this is an important development for you, Michael."_ He had said, and even he hadn't completely believed himself, even though it wasn't entirely untrue. He just didn't want her to stop talking... words like "wet" and "soft" coming from her were innocent and sweet. Tantalizing and erotic.

" _It was nice, until..."_

" _Yes?"_

" _He... tried putting his tongue in my mouth."_

" _How did that go?"_ Gabriel hears him suppressing a chuckle.

" _That's when I wanted to come back."_

Gabriel opens his closet and removes a light blue button down.

" _You didn't like it?"_ His voice says and there's another pause. " _Michael?"_

" _It felt nice. But... startling. I don't know him that well."_

" _Do you think if you knew him better you would've done more?"_

" _No- yes. I don't know. Can we talk about something else-"_

Gabriel turns off the recorder and puts it in his briefcase. He's almost tempted not to return to the institute today. Maybe he should take a personal day, most of residents weren't around much these days. Family picnics and enjoying the summer in _Wolfeboro_ or _Alton Bay_ even _North Conway_.

But he has to work. He doesn't have many hobbies. He doesn't like to hunt, not that he doesn't know how to use a gun. He keeps a loaded handgun in his dresser drawer, just in case. You never know. Small town, small minds. And the antique hunting rifle but that was just for decoration.

The basement could also wait. It hadn't been tended to in weeks, he had slipped in his duties when it came to that part of the house. But it could wait, continue to collect dust like all family relics that we keep hidden in our basements.

Gabriel didn't exactly mind that more often than not his work was fairly mundane.

Mrs. Newport had repressed guilt for having an affair before her wedding day, 40 years prior. Mr. Franklin had guilt from Vietnam. Nancy Gilmore suffered from kleptomania which she felt the need to confess to him every weekend after her week of going on a thefting spree. He kept telling her he wasn't a priest, that he couldn't absolve her, but that didn't stop the devout Catholic from coming to see him.

Then... Michael Burnham showed up. Repressed memories, guilt for years, sexually repressed by her own doing and not by some outside source. And that she was stunning and beautiful and intelligent and challenged him in every way she possibly could didn't help either.

She appealed to him on most levels, meeting his criteria for a partner in most aspects. However... sexually he wasn't as confident. He wasn't a virgin, far from it. But it was that Michael was so inexperienced that set him on edge. But it was the opposite of a turn off that disturbed him. In fact her inexperience and naivete was incredibly arousing.

But Gabriel wasn't that type of man. He wasn't about to sacrifice his morals and his principles because he had a crush. His days of workplace dalliances were over.

 _Keep telling yourself that, Gabe,_ the voice said over his shoulder.

Resigning himself, he did go to work.

His first few sessions passed by in a distracted daze. He pretended to take notes on Mrs. McCarthy's guilt for poisoning her neighbor's lilacs. He simply grunted during Nancy Gilmore's confession of stealing _Hummel_ figurines from a thrift store.

Gabriel was ready to fall asleep in his chair when Michael appears and he's suddenly wide awake.

"Michael," he says, rising and coming around. She extends her hand, she's growing more comfortable with physical contact. He doesn't mind. He's acutely aware of how soft her skin is, he finds himself finding new reasons to touch her. Which he attempts to hinder but he finds it more difficult than he thought it would be.

"How are you feeling today?" He asks her, releasing her hand, already aching to touch her again.

"Good. I think I've almost grown used to the pipes." She says, taking her usual seat.

Gabriel takes his place opposite her, foregoing the notepad but recording their session.

"What do you want to talk about today?" He asks her, clasping his hands in front of him.

"I haven't spoken to Ash since... the kiss." She admits to him, she almost sounds regretful.

"Why not?" He asks her, the young man's name left a bad taste in his mouth as of late. He had been keeping his distance from him if he was being honest with himself. He wasn't proud of it.

"Things are awkward now. As I knew would happen." She tells him, frustratedly, picking at her thumb nail. "Intimacy only complicates things."

"It doesn't have to." He tells her. "Are you actively avoiding him?"

"Yes."

"Why?" He doesn't want to push her into Ash's arms, but if he made her comfortable and happy then who was he to stand in their way?

 _Stop pretending to be chivalrous._

However, he was beginning to see Michael as more than a patient. He felt himself simultaneously growing protective of her. He didn't want to shield her from discovering her sexuality, but he didn't want her to make a mistake that she would regret, he didn't want her to take his advice and explore herself with another only for it to end badly and have her blame him.

 _Sounds like you're making excuses to keep her to yourself._

"I feel uncomfortable around him now. Somehow the friendship that was developing has taken an alternate turn. I don't know how to navigate it." She explains.

"Would it help if you weren't exposed to him as often?" He asks her, Michael nods absentmindedly. He speaks again without thinking, "Why don't you stay with me for a while?"

Michael's eyes widen at his suggestion and he immediately regrets it but he can't show it.

"With you?" She asks and he nods like a fucking idiot.

"Obviously seeing him is making you uncomfortable," he forces out. "No reason you should have to deal with that if you don't want to. And besides, it's not like you're a real patient."

Michael thinks on it for a moment, he needs her to say no. He _needs_ her to reject the idea and cope with seeing Ash every day. She _needs_ to learn to figure it out on her own, he can't hide her away from it. That's the opposite of what he should be doing-

"Alright." She answers, smiling at him, _trusting_ him, believing he has her best interests at heart.

"Great." He manages.

Their session continues, she talks more about her childhood. He's grateful her latent sexuality doesn't come up again.


	9. VIII

VIII

His home smells like lilac and birch bark. The house is old, built in the 50's as a hunting lodge, later converted into a family home with five bedrooms. He's made one bedroom into an office and study, another into a library. A similar glass case as the one in his office at the institute is housed in such a room with a larger collection of lethal knives. These look older and far more priceless.

"Guest room is this way, but I'll be honest, I don't host much." He tells her, leading the way up the refinished staircase, the landing is open and wide and looks down into the large and sparse living room that connects to an open kitchenette.

"Here we are." He says, opening the door and carrying her few belongings inside for her. The bed is large with an intricate hand spun quilt. A rocking chair by one large window with a crank to roll it out. Billowing white curtains hang over the window looking out onto the lake like a veil.

" _Bullet Lake_ ," he says as she makes her way towards the open window, smelling the breeze. "They say there's a million casings in there." He moves to the small bathroom, flicks on a light and checks to make sure it's stocked for a visitor. It would be. He doesn't get visitors, doesn't encourage it really. Not anymore.

"Why?" She asks him, the sky is growing overcast.

"Back in the day hunters used to think they could shoot from one side of the lake to other, hitting their target on the shore. Marksman bull talk," he explains, coming back into the room. "It was a friendly competition or so I'm told. Nobody ever made it to the other side."

Michael watches as he pulls the scarf around his neck off, revealing skin she hadn't seen before. He was dressed down in a loose grey button up and jeans, he looked comfortable and fit into the environment around him. The first buttons of his shirt were undone, she had never seen him more relaxed before. Unkempt...

The newly exposed flesh was something she couldn't stop herself from being drawn to.

"If you need anything just let me know." He says, coming to stand in front of her, his hand resting on her elbow... always her elbow. Left or right, it didn't matter. She finds herself leaning into it more. "I sleep on the other side of the landing."

"Are there any noisy pipes or ghosts I should know about?" She asks as he begins to leave, he smiles and leans a hand on the doorframe.

"Just the ones in your head." He replies before disappearing down the hall.

Michael sits on the comfortable bed, enjoying the spring breeze and the natural sweet scent of purple and white lilacs that follows. She unpacks and plugs her phone in. She hears a familiar song begin to drift down the hallway.

Al Green, that was the singer's name. She can't help but smile and follow the music. He's in his office, standing over a beaten looking wooden work table, a wet stone in his hand and a pocket knife in the other; paintings, a few photographs and old portraits adorn the walls sporadically. The sound of metal brushing against the stone isn't chafing, but almost magnetic, drawing her in.

"You like knives," she comments and he turns and takes notice of her then goes back to his work. "Why?"

He meanders and then blows on the blade,

"Simple tool, one of the first that man made. Lethal, beautiful, disarming, useful. I respect the knife. It's not a clumsy dumb weapon," he pauses, picking another up and handing it to her, it's another flip knife with a black grip, closed. It's weighty but light at the same time. She opens it, holding it away from herself. "It takes skill to learn how to properly use it," he goes on. "And purely from an aesthetic point of view, elegant."

Michael attempts to close the knife, but the blade won't budge. Chuckling nervously she examines it.

"I think I broke it." She says and he laughs, setting down the wet stone and his other knife.

"No, it's... right here," he takes her hand in his, she's still holding the handle, he moves her forefinger below the blade at the neck of the knife. "Feel that?" He asks her, his face close to her own. Out of the corner of her eye she glances at his lips... for the first time wondering what it would be like to kiss him. He moves his finger over her own.

"Feel how it wiggles a little?" He asks and she nods, swallowing and looking back at their conjoined hands. "Press in, like that," he instructs and she does, "Now slowly close the blade inward." She follows his direction and soon the blade is closed, safe and sound.

"First step in handling a knife is safety," he says to her gently, his hand still over her own, the metal of the knife growing hot in her closed palm. "And treating it with respect. It's a tool not a toy, remember that."

Michael can only nod, but as she does so she looks back up at him again. His eyes are wandering over her face, she feels a warmth in her gut grip her tightly like a hot fist when his blue eyes land on her lips. She wonders if he's going to kiss her... would he? Does he want to? There would have been no prelude to it.

Taking a deep breath he releases her hand. She places the knife down on the table next to him. There's a sudden tension in the air that wasn't there before. The wind blows a little harder.

"Damn weather here never cooperates." He mutters and she watches him continue to sharpen his knife.

"How long can I stay?" She asks him and he pauses only for a moment.

"Until you'd like to leave." He tells her, blowing on the blade one last time before clipping it closed.

Michael takes her leave, returning to the guest room. She makes herself comfortable and takes out the copy of _Manfred_ that he gave her to read.

A tragic tale about a man wracked with guilt, mourning a dead lover.

She eventually falls asleep, it is the rain that wakes her slowly. She rubs her eyes, the room is dark and quiet. The curtains billow gently. She cranks the window shut and locks it. There is no music now, but the hallway is alight. She goes out onto the landing, he's in the kitchenette, she can hear him.

Michael wipes her face again, clearing her eyes of crud and pinching her cheeks to force herself to waken faster. She descends the stairs. The walls have little art but what is there are portraits of various men and women through the last two centuries, similar to his office. Men in red coats riding chestnut horses. Ladies in delicate gowns mingling with one another.

"You're awake," Gabriel says when she enters the kitchenette. "Did Lord Byron put you to sleep?"

Michael blushes, he must have checked in on her at some point.

"It's not what I was expecting." She admits and he lifts a chef knife and begins cutting red peppers.

"That it's a ghost story?" He asks, his eyes flicking to hers for a moment.

"It's rather autobiographical from what my research tells me," she says. "But again, another instance of lust causing trouble."

Gabriel chuckles.

"Well, it was his half sister Byron was in love with. I guess I'd run away too." He says, making light and Michael flattens her hands on the cold countertop.

"Despite the fanciful themes," she says. "I... I do like it. I understand his guilt, even if he can't name it."

Gabriel finishes making dinner, he offers her wine and she refuses at first. Then asks to try some, he hands her his glass and she wrinkles her nose at the robust red liquid.

"Some people aren't drinkers," he says kindly. "It's all about moderation."

"May I have more?" She asks and he ponders her request for a moment before getting a smaller juice glass.

"What the hell, you're twenty one." He says. She sips it, growing used to the taste. Her mother enjoyed wine but Sarek always discouraged its usefulness. He saw it purely as another way to hinder his intelligence.

After dinner, Michael helps him do the dishes.

"This pot?" She asks and he points to a cupboard above her head. She reaches the handle but she's too short to lift it into the small space. Michael doesn't hear him come up behind her. His hands touch hers and she has to remind herself she's holding a pot and that she should most definitely not drop it.

"Here." He says lifting it from her hands and placing it face down, closing the door of the cupboard. He's still behind her. She wonders what he's thinking, because all she can think about is how she can feel his body heat. All she can think about is how good he smells, that he smells like this place... the floral and the fauna and the rustic earthiness.

"Anything else?" She asks him, she freezes when his fingers touch her chin and before she realizes what's happening she looking at him, his thumb running along her bottom lip. Ash hadn't done that, in fact that interaction with Ash didn't feel anything like this. There had been butterflies and anticipation but... she was on fire right now. She felt like she had been electrocuted.

Was that normal? Should she feel almost light headed? Maybe it was the wine... but she'd only had a limited amount. It couldn't be the wine... was it?

Michael wasn't sure what to think, she also wasn't sure how long they stood like that. But eventually he does move away. She misses the heat, the scent, and the what-if he touched her feeling that seemed to encapsulate her.

"What... what are you going to do the rest of the night?" She asks, finding her voice again. He puts other dishes away and folds a hand towel.

"Probably go over patient notes." His answer is tight, she notices perspiration on his neck.

Was he nervous?

Michael considered herself brave, not necessarily when it came to intimacy but she could be brave with other things. Like the time she was dared by the boys to crawl through the old mine shafts in Vulcan; they argued they couldn't because girls could contort themselves into small spaces.

Michael had crawled so far and so deep that after a while she stopped being afraid and embraced the quiet of the mine shaft. Amanda had been furious. But Michael had never felt more alive in her young life.

All she had to do was apply that bravery to right now.

"Do you want to kiss me?"

Gabriel noticeably stiffens, he stops breathing. His eyes search for something to fiddle with, for a window to suddenly shatter. The floor disappears and he thinks he can sink down into nothingness.

"Michael," He begins, knowing his voice sounds rougher than he meant it to. "That's not what you need."

He hopes she stays put. He has fairly decent self control, but he already could feel it slipping through his fingers.

"What do you mean?" She asks, so sweetly and innocently.

"Michael, I wouldn't want to... to further confuse you." He explains and it's true. As much as he desires her he can't allow her to do this.

One kiss could lead to many more things she wasn't mentally or emotionally prepared for let alone equipped to handle.

"I just want to know if it will feel different," She says. "It's already vastly different."

God damn it, the last thing he needs is for her to inflate his ego, to stoke the fires of his masculine pride.

"Please." She adds not a moment later. Gabriel hopes if he simply doesn't answer and remains still maybe she'll be discouraged.

Instead, she takes his silence as meaning the opposite. Coming towards him, swallowing nervously she stops inches from him. He realizes he's gripping the marble countertop behind him, he's sure his knuckles have turned white. He feels the strain and tension in his shoulders, neck and hands.

Michael licks her lips, most likely a subconscious action.

"It would be beneficial if you leaned down." She tells him, her voice low and god help him he does, only a little.

Then Michael's hands are on his chest and her lips are delicately making first contact with his own. Fuck, he's screwed now.

He keeps telling himself this isn't him, he didn't become fixated on inexperienced young women, he didn't deceive them into living with him or seduce them.

But Gabriel can't deny there's something so unbearably _forbidden_ about Michael. Like a siren or a nymph. God damn Persephone incarnate.

Did that in turn make him Hades?

Instead of distracting himself with ancient parables, he returns to the moment. Enraptured by the feel of her innocent lips over his.

Michael changes the angle of her head, her lips more firmly pressing down on his own, her bottom lip getting caught between his and he can't help but yield further into her mouth.

He doesn't make the mistake Ash did, he lets Michael lead. Even if he is aching to taste her more fully.

Michael finally releases him, her hands quaking against his broad chest. She licks her lips again and he hangs onto every ounce of control he has left.

He expects her to retreat. She doesn't.

"It's different." She says and he snaps, but the breaking point is gradual; cascading over him as he gently cups her face in both hands and kisses her.

Michael moans lightly, unaware of the sound she makes. Her fingers tighten on his thin shirt. His heat radiates off him and rolls onto her; seeping into her pores and slithering an invisible path down her chest and ending in her core.

Her mouth gets wet and her lips part, she innocently moves her tongue closer to the seam of his lips. She backs him further into the countertop until she's pinned him there and he lets her.

Gabriel decides it's now or never and meets her tongue halfway and she whimpers, physically shudders, her hands sliding up to his shoulders.

She tastes like forbidden fruit. The ultimate, intimate sin.

Michael concedes defeat and he thoroughly and, by comparison to both men and encounters, expertly kisses her.

Gabriel doesn't think she's aware that she's pressed harder against his chest, that she's cupped between his pelvis and that she's squirming her belly against his erection.

He should tell her to stop, take her back to the institute where she's safe from his pawing hands. He shouldn't have brought her here.

 _Isn't this what you wanted?_

If Michael is aware of his hard length she doesn't show it. Her arms are trapped between them against his chest.

But she has to breathe, so he removes his mouth from hers and she gasps lightly, bending forward as if she might collapse. He keeps her steady, his hands going to her elbows like always. Because he can't let himself touch her anywhere else.

"How do you feel?" He asks her, and he tells himself it's for science not because he wants to know if she's wet for him, if the hard little pebbles of her nipples pressing into him need intimate attention... he'll give into any demand she has in that moment.

And a darkness inside him tells him he won't stop if she asks for more.

"I feel dizzy again," She says, her breath hot. "It's so different."

Gabriel needs to hear more. He innocently glides his hands down her sides and she bites her bottom lip, swollen from his kiss. Every inch of her is sensitive to the touch... _his_ touch.

"What else?" He further asks.

"I feel warm... and..." She lowers her head, her shame returning. He refuses to let her give into it though.

"Everything you're feeling is natural, Michael. Desire is part of being human." He explains.

Then her eyes meet his; dark, glassy, famished.

"I want more." No sooner had the words left her mouth was his back on hers.

His tongue collides with her own and she wraps her arms around his neck. He changes their position and lifts her onto the counter.

He glides his tongue over her lips and she whimpers, he plants his feet firmly on the hardwood, and his hips rock against hers. Her eyes go wide when she feels him there and he gently rubs the side of her neck.

"If you want to stop tell me," He whispers. "If you get scared make me stop."

Michael meekly nods before his mouth covers her own again. He feels her hands searching his body, feels the heat between her legs, her heart against his.

 _Fuck her, right here, make her remember,_ a voice tells him.

He wants to. He aches to bury his cock inside her, to watch her face scrunch up in pain and eventually pleasure.

The breeze is cool but does nothing to stop the growing heat between them, the blooming lilacs permeate throughout the house. Her mouth is wet, her tongue following his lead.

Christ, has she ever even touched herself?

Gabriel gently moves his hand under her small breast, leaving it there but not squeezing. When she doesn't push him away he moves higher until her breast is entirely in his hand.

It's half a moan half a squeak that she omits, it only leaves him wanting more. Nothing seems to ease his lust for her. He reaches down to one leg, raising it higher around his hip and he slowly but steadily drives himself against her center.

She breaks from his mouth, leaning her head on his sturdy shoulder, mewling little breaths here and there. He feels her responding to the thrust of his hips, the friction of their jeans teasing them both, the buckle of his belt coasting along her hidden clitorous.

Michael meets his thrusts shyly at first.

"Do what comes naturally." He whispers in her ear, guiding her.

With that simple encouragement she begins raising her center higher to his own. He lets out a heavy breath, huffing through his nose.

God, he wants to feel how wet she is but he can't allow himself that. It would frighten her, be too much at one time. He doesn't want to scare her away.

The first moment he thinks she's about to cum is when her movements become faster, her breathing hitched and her eyes are tightly shut.

"Something-"

" _Shh_... let it happen. It's ok. I'm here." He manages to say, his voice reminds her of the knife's blade against the wet stone.

"Ah... it... oh my god." Michael whimpers a final time, her voice lost and he increases the speed of his thrusts to get her there until she shivers, a short gasp leaves her lips and she comes apart like frail glass in his arms. It's not until she's shaking in his arms does he feel her nails digging into the back of his neck. He leaves them there.

Gabriel wants to cum against her but he stops... he can take care of himself later. Right now was about her, and it dawns on him then that was probably her first orgasm. That alone nearly makes him cum.

Christ, he's going to pay for this... They'll want more, they always always want more.

 _What have I done?_

He leaves her legs around him and carries her like a fragile doll up the stairs to her bedroom, each movement of her weight against his erection teases him further.

"It's alright." He tells her as he gently places her on the bed, fetching her a glass of water. "Take a shower and think about going to sleep." Michael nods, still trapped in the fog of her pleasure. He cups her face and simply looks at her, kissing her chastely on the cheek.

After he leaves her, he waits outside her door and soon he hears the water turn on. He goes to bedroom and locks the door.

He fucks his own hand, imagining her under the hot spray of the water.

It's not until afterward that his guilt rises to the surface like a terrifying iceberg.


	10. Fixation: IX

IX

 _The dream is vivid and overwhelming, taking her to new heights. The hand massages her womanhood with determination and she's powerless to stop them. The heat that surrounds her feels like hell, she's totally undressed and uninhibited... the devil wants her. They're laughing at her, manipulating her body to want them. Eating her alive in the most illicit ways, and she wants more._

" _You like that, little girl?" The rasping voice asks, boiling hot against her earlobe, biting it and raking their claws across her body. She nods her head eagerly, wanting them to mark her. "Lost little lamb," the voice whispers, over her shoulder she only sees a pair of eyes, the pupils so engorged they swallow the faintest hints of cobalt..._

" _I'm going to savage you, little girl," the voice tickles her spine, shoving her face first into something soft and she struggles, her hands bound behind her back with one hand. She needs to wake up, she has to wake up... it's just a dream. Just a very, very_ bad _dream._

 _The large hands raise her backside, yanking her firmly against a stiffness she's never felt before. She's shaking her head, trying to get away, but the hands hold her firmly still._

" _No... no, we can't-"_

" _You wanted this-"_

" _No- I can't, this isn't right-"_

" _Tell your dripping little snatch that."_

 _Michael feels the blunt head of something soft but hard poking at her center and she shudders, it's sliding against her slit almost massaging her. Easing it against her swollen clit, spreading her wetness further._

" _Say you want it." The voice orders and she rocks her hips back, but then another hand shoves her shoulder back into the... What? Bed? Altar? Sacrificial table? She didn't know, but she's blind. All she knows is that she realizes with a terrible chill that there are two hands on her hips and another on her shoulder. How many demons were here?_

" _I can't." She argues, the tip of the demon's manhood enters her and she cries out, the hand on her shoulder moves to her wrist, then the other. They're holding her down._

" _It will be so easy to give into it, little girl," the voice croons, leaning over her, she feels every line of muscle._

" _Do you think that boy could give you_ this _?" The phallus moves another inch and she forces her hips to remain still, to not give into them. The fingers on her wrists rub sweet circles, a kiss is planted to her forehead._

" _Please... I can't say it." She tells them and the beast behind her laughs, another sweet kiss to her cheeks, she leans into those lips._

" _We'll give you what you want," a softer voice says, in front of her face but she can't open her eyes. "We'll make you fly." A promise, sealed with an open kiss to her lips. She's allowed to lean up and into the lips of the stranger._

" _Good," the voice behind her says. "Now... say it."_

 _Christ, he's already half inside of her... but he wants her to verbalize it. This is a dream, a fucking nightmare._

" _Please... I want you." She whispers against the lips she can't see, only feel, a tongue licks the inside of her mouth. "I want both you." She admits, the mouth returns to cover her fully, as his tongue enters her mouth the cock behind her enters her entirely, shoving her chest first into the man before her, who catches her._

 _Michael cries out in pain; it stings and burns and it's brutal and she can't help herself, she wants more. Because it's a dream she expects the pain to fade more quickly, but it's so real. She feels every inch of the beast inside of her, gliding and splitting her open._

" _Yes..." she breathes, hands in front of her cup her face, kissing her again as the demon begins to thrust firmly inside of her giving her what she needs, what she's been denying herself._

You have to wake up, _she tells herself but she refuses to. She won't let herself leave this dreamscape. It's too much and not enough. She reaches back to hold the biting hand at her hip, with her other she cups the face of the man before her. When she opens her eyes she gasps but can't look away._

 _It's Director Lorca but it's not him, not really. His eyes are black, any pigment of blue erased. His face is gentle, his hands kind, his lips healing. The demon yanks her upright, tearing her away from him, she reaches out and he takes her hand, following her onto the altar._

 _On his knees he runs his hand over her breasts and then between her legs, rubbing her swollen clit and she's panting._

" _Touch him." The demon behind her orders. She obeys, her hands steady on his shoulders and down his arms to his muscular chest. Michael lays kisses along his chest until her hand grasps his impressive length. The dream Gabriel in front of her is moaning under her strokes, shaking and holding her head firmly in his strong hands, meeting her eyes._

" _You want us." The demon says, his thrusts increasing and she's whimpering and moaning until her throat is hoarse._

It's just a dream, you can wake up, _she tells herself, but she still doesn't want to._

" _You need us, Michael," the voice continues, dark and sharp. "You need us to unlock your desire... tell us how you feel." On the last word it's Gabriel's voice behind her, his face in front of her and she shakes her head but his lips haven't moved._

" _Close." She answers, he kisses her again, coaxing her tongue out of her mouth and drowning her._

" _Filthy little girl." The voice says, stabbing his length into her willing body. She keeps stroking the man in front of her, he's breathing is labored against her, his body shaking uncontrollably. "Make him cum." The voice orders, disgusting and dripping with toxin._

" _I'm sorry." Gabriel says and she frowns, unsure of why or what he's apologizing for. It's just a dream... he gasps, his head thrown back as he ejaculates into her hand, his seed landing on her belly and just above her mound. He's shuddering in her palm and against her neck, his head buried there._

" _This is your place," the voice whispers, licking her neck, "With us in the dark. You are ours."_

 _Michael feels two strong arms wrap around her from behind, pumping the insanely large phallus into her quivering womanhood; sore and wet and chafed, but she doesn't want him to stop. The air is knocked from her lungs, she collapses against Gabriel's chest and he holds her as the demon forces a tight, white hot blinding orgasm from her. She bites his chest and he tenses against her. She fears she's drawn blood... she can almost taste it._

 _It's just a dream, why would he feel pain?_

" _Take it." The voice says and with one last thrust that sends her reeling he's buried completely inside of her, cumming and spewing his demon's essence into her womb. She's crumbling against both of them; man and demon._

" _You'll never leave." The voice whispers, both distinctly male bodies are fading from view as she feels herself falling into nothingness. An abyss swallows her, she forgets to tell herself to wake up._

Something wet is against her forehead; groaning she tries to turn over but something stops her.

"Relax," Director Lorca speaks, his voice soothing to her aching head. "You were sleepwalking."

Michael opens her eyes, the sun is rising. The room is aglow with a nightlight, he wipes her forehead with a damp cloth.

"What happened?" She asks him, attempting to sit up but he stops her.

"You took a bit of a tumble down the stairs," He explains. "Hit your head a bit."

He rises and turns on a light, she squints as it assaults her eyes and she pulls the blanket over her head.

"Michael, I still need to examine you," He says lightly. Reluctantly she removes the quilt and he resumes his seat beside her. Taking out a small pen shaped flashlight he moves it across her eyes, holding them wide one by one.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" He asks, raising a hand.

" _Two_ many to count." She replies smartly and he chuckles.

"Making jokes, good sign. Your name and the date."

Michael sighs.

"Michael Vivianne Burnham, it's May 5th 2018."

He nods.

"Vivianne?" He questions and she shrugs.

"Grandmother, I never met her. I have my birth certificate if you want to make sure I'm not concussed."

He takes her wrist in his hand, checking her pulse to the watch on his wrist. Doesn't seem necessary but she likes the way his hand feels.

It's then that the dream returns to her- no, _nightmare_.

"You'll probably be sore for a few days," he explains, resting her hand down on the bed. "I want you to stay awake a little longer."

Michael feels like they're being watched again, her eyes travel across the room, sitting up again she notices the closet door is ajar.

Gabriel notices.

"What's wrong?" He asks, she can't possibly tell him about her dream... it's too embarrassing. She can't tell him that she feels the wetness between her legs suddenly, that she's blushing because of what the images conjured within her.

She felt like she was under a spell. But he only moves closer to her, leaning over her and she wants to tell him to go because she needs to control these confusing emotions. She feels utterly minuscule beneath him.

Michael can't discern what's real or fantasy all of the sudden.

"I'm fine," she lies and for the first time in her life it's convincing, "My head just hurts."

Gabriel sighs and cups her face.

"Are you prone to sleepwalking?" He asks and she shakes her head. "Not even as a child?"

"Never. Heavy sleeper, early riser." She says. His thumb caresses her cheek and she can't help but close her eyes... what headache? Even his hands smell like this place.

Gabriel watches her bite her lip, worrying it between perfect teeth.

When he had found her she had just begun to descend the stairs, he called out her name but she didn't respond. By the time she fell he was too late. Even as he carried her to room, fearful she had broken a bone or worse, she had been mumbling and moaning in her sleep.

He couldn't decipher words, but she had tried kissing him, there had been a few inappropriate touches as well he refused to give into.

She had been completely out of it. When she began to wake he had ceased shaking and his fear had dissipated considerably.

"What were you dreaming about?" He can't help but ask. The light of a new day begins to dawn through the windows, bathing her in gold.

Opening her eyes, Michael looks away.

"I... I don't remember." This lie is less convincing, she knows it. But he doesn't challenge her on its validity.

"Whatever it was," He begins. "It must have been powerful."

She nods, swallowing and clenching her thighs beneath the blanket.

"Must have been." She agrees.

"Do you want me to stay?" He asks, his hand traveling to her shoulder.

"Yes." She answers.

Gabriel removes his glasses, pulls the covers back and holds her from behind. She settles back against his chest, the nightmare more vivid than ever before. She can almost still feel him inside of her. She feels his hand on the dip in her waist and his breath tickles the back of her neck.

If he's trying to be comforting it's having the opposite effect. He's putting her on edge, making her body vibrate with simple breaths, he's barely touching her yet his hand feels like it was made to touch her.

Subtly she moves her thumb to her mouth biting the digit between her teeth gently, anything to relieve the pressure that seems to only increase between her legs.

"How's your head?" He asks her, his voice clings to her skin.

"Better." She answers, clipped, eyes closed tightly.

The image of him on his knees in front of her in her dream, touching him in ways she never had never imagined touching him before, or anyone. Where had her mind concocted such crystal clear symbolism? What did it all mean...?

Perhaps it was just a symptom from the kiss, her brain was still trying to cope with all of the new endorphins it hadn't felt before. But the extent of the dream had been terrifying.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asks, hovering over her shoulder. "Your breathing is strained."

Michael can't look at him, suddenly ashamed of how she lusts after him. The way she wants to say to hell with it and use his body the way it was meant to be used. As a fucking tool for her pleasure.

"I'm fine." She manages to say, her legs shifting slightly under the blanket. She's sure he can feel her moving. His voice is irritating her in different days. She wants to roll over and kiss him but she's lost her courage from before, she can't face him.

And Michael is completely unaware of the internal struggle he's facing. Christ, the way she naively presses her hips back into his manhood, her thighs squeeze against each other to relieve the cumbersome ache she's feeling.

"I should go, you need to rest." He says against the back of her neck, he doesn't ignore the way she shivers when his warm breath hits her like a bullet.

"You don't have to." She suggests, the warmth of the sun seeps into her skin and she suggestively adjusts her backside into his groin.

Groaning mutely he sits up.

"I can't do this." He says, shaking his head, swinging his legs over to the side.

"You said you would stay." She says, her voice close behind him. He swallows, impressed he's able to suddenly control himself so well. Perhaps he is stronger than the other part of himself.

The other part that wants to ruin her.

"This isn't right, Michael," he says and he turns to look at her, she's sitting up. "You don't deserve this." He ignores the way her arm presses her sweet little tits together. Fuck, he wants to kiss each one, bite them.

"I don't understand," she says. "You don't want me?"

"Christ," he mutters, rubbing his face. He forces himself to stand. "It's the opposite, Michael-"

"Then I don't know why-"

"Of course you don't!" His voice rises and she snaps her mouth shut, suddenly she's ten and Sarek is furious. He immediately regrets shouting but he's tired, exhausted. He spent the last hour thinking she was going to die in his house. She had no idea how afraid he had been.

"Michael," he begins again, attempting to be gentle. "There is still so much you don't understand. I will continue our sessions with you but beyond that... I can't give you what you need. Please, understand."

He watches as she simply stares at him. Those perfect brown eyes begging him to take her into his arms. And he wants to. He wants to keep her forever here in this pit of hell with him. Maybe she could save him from himself. He had been naive himself, thinking she could see him as something more than... whatever it was he had become.

They weren't friends or lovers. Even he wasn't sure what they were, but it went beyond a professional doctor-patient relationship. He wants more from her, so much more. And even if she thinks she's capable of more it would only serve to complicate things further.

Gabriel would be selfishly depriving her of her own journey. He had only meant to point her in the right direction, not deceive her into his arms.

"You touch me, kiss me," she says, her voice wavering. "You... you've opened my mind to so much. And... now- what did you want from me? Why did you want me here?"

Gabriel doesn't answer, he can't. He doesn't know what he would say. He forces himself to leave and not look back. He's sure she will be fine, as far as her head is concerned. Emotionally, he knows he made a fatal error in accepting her kiss the night before, in bringing her to his home.

In his jealousy towards Ash he had hastily abandoned his principles and isolated her here under the deception it was for her benefit. But it was for his benefit alone that he sought to inrich with her company. He feels shallow and hot headed.

After he departs Michael can't even bring herself to cry. The dawn, which had moments ago seemed welcoming and beautiful, now blinded her. She closes the curtains, turns off the light, envelops herself in the bedding.

Maybe if she told him of her dream he would still want her... maybe... her head aches and she falls back to sleep. Lustful dreams do not follow her. It's an airtight void that swallows her.


	11. Fixation: X

X

When Michael wakes again it's mid afternoon, the house is quiet, the ever present scent of lilacs assaults her senses and she cringes as the smell overpowers her. She cringes and lifts a hand to her head.

Down the landing, she hears muffled voices. Gabriel's voice and another man's... they're arguing. Rising she hides behind the half open door, trying to listen.

"I shouldn't have brought her here-"

"Well she's here now. What are we going to do?"

Michael frowns. Clearly whoever he's conversing with sounds angry, maybe a little concerned. She doesn't recognize the voice.

"I'll send her back." Gabriel decides and a hand goes over her chest, her heart suddenly pounding.

"Little late for that, Gabe," the voice replies. "What does she know?"

"Nothing. Gossip, you know this town."

"You shouldn't have come back." The voice says with a sigh. Michael dares to peak but she's suddenly gripped by a fear that what she'll see is something terrible.

Something she won't be able to unsee.

"I'll live with that." Gabriel says, he sounds tired and defeated. "Maybe-"

" _Shh_." The voice says suddenly.

Michael is frozen in fear. She searches for an escape. Instead all she finds is his glasses on the night table. She forces her feet to move. Her hand touches the stem just as the door opens and she whirls around, gasping when she sees him.

"You..." she swallows, unable to finish her sentence, simply holding out the spectacles to him.

Slowly he approaches her and for the first time since meeting him she's afraid of him. He gently plucks the glasses from her shaking hand.

"Who is that?" She asks because there's no point in lying. He'll know.

"A friend." He answers, watching her closely. But it doesn't sound like him, and his eyes...

"I thought you didn't have friends or host company." She says, attempting to ease the uncomfortable tension in the small space.

A queer smirk paints his once inviting lips. He leans into her space and she forces herself not to look away.

"Then why are you here?" He chuckles before turning. His hand on the knob he looks back at her, "Be a good girl and wait here. Don't make me lock you in."

Michael shudders and his eyes look her up and down, making her feel naked and vulnerable under his gaze.

The door closes and she doesn't even hear his footsteps drift away.

Rushing to her phone she prays for a signal. She calls Amanda but there's no answer. She tries Sarek and Spock, nothing.

Michael then decides to Google Rourke, specifically typing in keywords.

 _Murder, witches, disappearances, institute_...

 _Rourke, NH Asylum Murder Spree_

 _Eva Wentworth Still Missing_

 _Ezzy the Ghost Strikes Again_

 _Lilac Season You Don't Want to Miss!_

Michael reminds herself about the first, but a horrible feeling squirms its way into her gut:

 _Eva Wentworth Still Missing..._

Michael clicks on the first page: it's roughly three years old, the article goes into detail that the young 23 year old woman of "17 Pleasant View Drive, left her parents home at around 7:30 PM" and no one had seen her since.

Michael reads to herself,

" _Rourke_ _police say she told her parents she was going to a friend's house for the night, but recently she had confided in her mother that she was feeling extremely depressed. Eva Wentworth's blue 2002 Toyota Corolla was found at the scene of an accident on Route 125 outside of Milton. There was nothing to indicate foul play but Eva's purse and car keys and license plates were missing. The only way the car was identified as belonging to Eva were a bumper sticker and a crucifix found in the car that her parents identified as belonging to Wentworth..."_ Michael pauses, the bars on her phone flick from three to one.

" _Police interviewed friends and family including an ex-boyfriend Ash-"_ Michael gasps, " _Ash Tyler, a known heroin addict and panhandler in the area. Police held him for questioning but made no arrest. Police also questioned Director Gabriel Lorca of the_ Discovery Institute _where Eva Wentworth had been interning at the time while attending_ UNH. _If you have any information please contact local authorities. The Wentworth family has issued a 10,000$ reward for anyone who can bring Eva home..."_

Michael's phone nearly falls from her grasp. She's shaking but feels numb. She doesn't know who to trust. Suddenly both Lorca and Ash look like different people; the feelings associated with them are muddled, like dropping a pebble into a puddle. The image grows distorted and out of focus...

Michael stares at the happy Eva Wentworth's picture, pixelated. The words " _Have you seen me?"_ float above her head.

She wants to delve more into the case, into yet another mystery surrounding this town. But she can't. Taking flight and getting the hell home are on the tip of her tongue, at the forefront of her mind.

She feels trapped, held against her will. Is she? If she asked Lorca to take her back to town would he? Can she even trust him?

This wasn't what Michael had come to Rourke for. She had come for answers, instead she was falling into the queer rabbit holes of other people's lives. Meddling and poking her nose where it didn't belong.

And she was being met with only more questions.

Michael is tempted to pack her things and sneak away first chance she gets. But something stops her. Something holds her here.

She can't let this go unsolved. She has to know what all of this means. And there's still the matter of Lorca himself. Who was he talking-

"Everything alright?"

Michael jumps a little, she didn't hear him come in. Subtly she locks her phone. Sitting cross legged on the bed she blinks.

"Fine." She answers.

Lorca smiles and suddenly he seems to be himself again. No trace of a strange doppelganger anywhere.

"I hope I didn't freak you out," He says entering the room more fully. "They were unexpected."

Michael can practically smell his lie but she shrugs and smiles.

"I didn't mean to intrude." She explains but he shakes his head.

"You didn't. They've just left," he pauses, she knows she had been reading but she hadn't heard a door open or close or anyone descend the stairs, "Are you hungry?"

Michael forces herself to nod.

"Come on. I'll make us some lunch. Why don't we have our session outside today? It's beautiful and the lilacs are almost blooming." He says kindly.

Another stiff nod.

"Are you sure you're alright?" He asks again.

"I think I just need a few more aspirin." She lies and he nods, amiable and sweet.

He comes to her and she reminds herself to appear ignorant. He extends his hand.

"Come along, I won't bite." But she doesn't entirely believe him. She puts her phone in her pocket and accepts his hand, warm and large and rough.

Michael knows she'll have to get better at lying very quickly if she's to find out what she wants to know. He was better at lying and catching someone as well, she was still learning to deceive.

She would need to take a chapter from his book and make him as comfortable as possible.

She needed to make him believe she was still trustworthy.


	12. Fixation: XI

XI

Lunch was delicious even if she didn't want to admit it. He was an excellent cook. Afterward, they took to the great outdoors. He set up two lawn chairs by the dock, he even gave her a blanket in case the cool air made her chilly. She hates that he's being so kind.

So attentive.

Her phone is upstairs in her room, she can't stop her leg from shaking, she wants to keep investigating. As they sit there he notices her leg tapping, the earth beneath her foot making the dirt and pebbles shake.

"You're anxious," he comments, his notepad is at his side, the tape recorder on the arm of the chair and the pen resting between two fingers. "Is it the dream or the sleepwalking?"

Michael tenses, remembering the dream. In the light of the sun and the warmth it provides the dream seems far away. Someone else dreamt those lurid things. It was another woman's depraved mind that wants Director Lorca to touch her like that. But she can't deny the twinge and tightness it leaves in her belly.

How can she fear him and desire him all at once?

"Both." She says, realizing she's not ready to lie to him. But perhaps she can lead him down another path.

"Are you starting to remember the dream?" He asks, the notepad left blank.

"Bits and pieces." She answers vaguely.

"Such as?" He inquires further, his tone placid. Nothing to give away he might ache to know more.

"There was... explicit imagery." She finally says, as if a weight had been lifted. But she could only take it so far.

At this, Lorca writes something down... left handed.

"Do you remember any sounds, tastes?" He questions, at the moment he wishes he had the blanket.

When she had been sleepwalking and he held her she had tried desperately to undress him and herself, touching him inappropriately and if he had given into his carnal, primal needs... if he had been any other man she would've awoken beyond petrified.

"Blood," she answers and he writes the word down, underlining it. "There were... more than two people." She averts her eyes and she knows he's staring at her, the sound of pen meeting paper is like nails on a chalkboard.

"You and... two other people?" He clarifies, he loosens a button on his collar, his voice even and calm but on the inside he's in torment. "Were they men?"

Michael shoots him a glare.

"Yes." She says, biting the word on her tongue.

"What else?" He presses.

"Does it matter?" She asks, her foot still tapping and she's thinking of all the information on her phone waiting to be read. And of the ghastly, graphic immoral things she begged to be done to her and thensome in her nightmare.

"It caused you to sleepwalk thereby causing you to have a near fatal accident. I think it matters." He argues. "Were they men you know?"

"Yes." She says, attempting not to role her eyes. She supposes this is male posturing of some kind. But if he didn't really want her or desire her then it didn't matter. And yet something inside of her wanted to torture him.

"Just because they're men you know in your waking life doesn't mean anything, you could have have met them for a moment or-"

"It was you. Both of them were you." She says and she waits for him to scribble something down but he doesn't. She looks him in the eye, she notices the tell tale switch in his left eye.

"Why are you doing this?" He asks her and she sighs.

"I'm telling the truth."

"I know you are, that's what scares me."

Michael glowers at him and shakes her head.

"Don't pretend you're not enjoying it." Michael says strongly, she doesn't recognize her own voice. Was she this type of girl- woman? She had to be if she was to earn his trust.

"Michael, we're in session." He reminds her.

"I'm not a patient. I'm not sick. Quite frankly I don't see why I shouldn't just go home. Can you think of a reason why I should stay?"

Biting his tongue for a moment he drops the pad and pen on top of one another, clasping his fingers together in his lap.

"What are you playing at?" He asks her.

"I think you know." She answers.

Michael sees only the faintest hints of that same look that frightened her hours ago, it appears finely across his features and then it's gone. His eyes dilate, appearing black like they had in her nightmare... in her room when he had caught her listening.

"That's not you." He tells her, his voice low, a bird cries off in the distance, a bluejay.

"Maybe it is now."

Despite her fear, she rises and comes towards him. He watches her carefully. He can't tell what she's doing, what's she's hoping to gain. He's already made it clear this form of therapy will be the _only_ form of therapy he gives her.

Why is she-

Michael plants herself in his lap and he has to stop himself from both throwing her off him and gripping her perfect legs. Instead he keeps his hands at his sides, to himself.

"Michael," he starts, but her lips tease his neck in shy little kisses. "Stop."

"In my dream you were touching me," she continues and he groans when she wiggles her perfect ass in his lap, she's shaking. "I felt you inside me, even when I woke up."

"Damn it, Michael." He takes her arms in his hands, squeezing and she whimpers in pain. Her eyes are filling with tears, but he doesn't know that's because she's still afraid of him and she hates herself for what she's doing. Hates herself for what she wants.

"Please, you want me," she goes on, surprised at how easy it is. "I want you."

"No you don't, you're confused-" He tries to tell her but she kisses him, like the other night he weakens under her.

Fine, he'll go along with her little ploy whatever it might be. Whatever she hopes to gain he'll show her what a mistake it is.

Gabriel responds to her kiss, keeping his other half in check. He changes her position, twisting her so her legs were on either side of his waist, slipping his hands down to her waist to grind her against his groin.

Michael's hands fall against his chest. He tastes just like he did the other night and even more like the dream him. He was intoxicating, everywhere, visible and invisible. Seen and yet unseen.

"Michael," he says her name again, his teeth grazing her neck and she shudders, moving her center against his, that sweet euphoria he's made her feel before coming back. It's a small burn, but it'll slowly grow out of control. She knows she'll let it to feel that way again.

"Now is... not the place." He tells her but he also doesn't care. That sliver of a moral compass he thought he had is slowly slipping away. He's ready to fuck her right here and right now.

"Just touch me." Michael says, cupping his face and staring into his eyes. But the blue hasn't left them yet and it almost makes her feel guilty.

"Where?" He asks her and she licks her lips, he's giving her control. It's exhilarating.

"Everywhere." She breathes. She goes to kiss him again but he moves out of the way and she's afraid he's going to reject her again.

"Here?" He whispers, his hand traveling up her waist to touch her breast. She quivers, swallowing and her chest heaves. He glides his thumb over her pebbled nipple, leaning forward to kiss the exposed skin at her collarbone. Her fingers slide through his hair, holding him at her chest.

"Where else?" He asks, his tongue moving against her skin. The heat of their bodies combined with the sun beating down on them and the humidity from the lake, the sickly sweet scent of lilacs creates a queer aura. A bouquet of pheromones.

"Everywhere." She tells him again. Michael urges her hips against his, faster and harder than before, chasing her pleasure.

"Michael, slow." He tells her but she won't listen. His other hand moves to her ass, cupping it and gripping her flesh through her jeans.

"I don't _want_ slow." She tells him urgently. "I want you."

"Alright, but you need to stop." He firmly takes hold of her hips and stills her heady movements.

"I can't." She tells him.

"Stand up. Let's go in the house." He tries but she shakes her head. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Alright, come with me." He says and he waits with bated breath. Eventually she stands and he takes her hand in his, forgetting his still recording tape player, notepad and pen forgotten on the ground.

He leads her to the shed outside of the house, he wouldn't fuck her in here and he knows that. In the house he's far more likely to succumb to the compulsion to fuck her bloody in a bed.

Gabriel ushers her inside, closing the door behind him but he doesn't lock it. She takes in her surroundings, it's clean as far as sheds go. Tools, the wheelbarrow from before, axes, a machete, a table with a small wood saw.

Michael doesn't hear him come up behind her, she only feels him wrap his arms around her stomach, pulling her back against him. She shivers as his lips touch her neck, she's still afraid but the pleasure she's feeling is canceling out the fear. He was right, it could feel like a drug.

Gabriel grinds his manhood into her backside and she begins crumbling under him. His hands move under her shirt, grabbing her breasts roughly, the buttons of the plaid material crippling under his large hands.

His teeth tickle her earlobe and she feels a strange urge to want him to bite her. Fuck, where had that thought come from? Who was she with him? She didn't know anymore.

But she didn't hate it.

"Fuck you make me so hard." He rasps against her flesh. "Are you wet?"

Michael can't believe she's nodding, she can't believe she's letting him feel his way down her stomach, to the button and fly of her jeans. She needs to stop but she can't. She doesn't want to. She doesn't want to be afraid anymore.

"Yes." She whispers back to him and she gasps when he finally touches her there, where she's never touched herself.

Gabriel breathes heavily when he feels how wet she is, positively slippery. She feels him moving her forward until her waist is pressing into the cutting table shaking it and it shudders and something clatters to the floor.

"You smell so good." He tells her, his fingers rubbing hard circles against her clit and she bucks back against him.

"Oh my god." She whimpers, his touches sending her into an inferno. She's back in her dream again but it's just her and her demon. The demon she's made him into. The one she turns him into.

His hand is gone again and she falls limply onto her forearms on the table. She feels him unbuttoning her shirt from behind and he tears it down her shoulders, there's a faint click and somehow he cuts through her bra. She didn't take into account he would have a knife on him... the fear nearly comes back to its entirety.

Gabriel's mouth plants a trail down her back, his hands tearing at her jeans, her panties bunched with them in a cluster of rumpled fabric.

"Fuck, Michael." He rumbles. He's on his knees behind her and she almost stops him, completely shamed suddenly he can see so many intimate parts of herself. It's so horrible and wrong but she can't stop him.

She feels something wet at her center and she cries out, her nails dragging across the surface of the table.

"Please." She whimpers hotly.

"Shh," he whispers and she feels his breath _there_ , blowing on her. "It'll feel good."

Michael relinquishes to him again. Trusting him even though she shouldn't.

The wet feeling at her womanhood, which can only be his mouth, returns more thoroughly again. His tongue is there accompanied by his fingers, spreading her open and she can't do anything except lie there and want more.

His tongue is lapping at her, his finger pressing into her entrance.

"Oh... shit." She hisses and his finger moves further into her until it's buried knuckle deep.

Michael feels him rise, hoisting her back against his chest, his mouth at her cheek and she can smell herself on his breath. His teeth nip at her jaw and she feels his manhood against her bare womanhood again.

Michael believed dreams could be windows into one's psyche. She never believed they could be prophetic. But here they were, living proof.

The shed is hot and cold, the shade affording coolness but the sun is at its highest point. It's like an oven in the shed but again, she can't bring herself to care. Neither can he.

"Don't stop." She tells him but she feels him hesitate.

"We can't do this here, not like this." He tries to tell her.

"I don't care anymore." She turns her head and she presses her mouth to his, drawing out his tongue.

Gabriel moans into her mouth, she _feels_ him shoving her legs apart with his own, she _hears_ him unbuckle his belt, lowering his trousers just enough.

"Take my hand." He tells her, clamping his left in her own. "It'll hurt but... it'll be quick."

Before Michael can process what he's said he's pressing into her and she squeezes her eyes shut. It's the nightmare and the dream all at once and she doesn't want him to stop. Even if it's burning, pinching and blinding. He grunts hard as he moves further inside of her.

"Ah, you... what have you done to me?" She somehow manages to utter out.

Gabriel doesn't answer, he simply shoves himself inside of her in his entirety and she muffles a scream. He doesn't stop either, he just keeps going, pumping into her with wild ferocity. It does hurt, he didn't lie about that.

But the more he thrusts into her the less the pain becomes. If her dream has taught her anything it's that he's as large in real life as he is in her nightmare. She's never seen another man's endowment before, but she doesn't need to to know he's more than blessed.

Christ, what would Amanda say? What she say if her younger self saw her now?

She feels his hand on her lower back, holding her firmly in place.

"How does it feel?" He asks, and she hears the voice from her nightmare.

Michael can only utter two words, two words that completely seal her fate,

"Don't stop."

Michael's waist cuts into the table as he turns up the speed of his thrusts to what could only be the max. He couldn't do it any faster, could he? He's touching a place in her that she didn't know was there. So deep in her, so secretly hidden away.

"You like that big cock inside you?" He whispers, his voice suddenly at her ear. She weakly nods her head.

"Yes." She answers and it fuels him even more. He's so hard inside of her, so thick and it's a dull ache now. Everything feels wet, everything smells of lilac and their sex.

"You filthy girl." He mutters and his voice wraps around her and suddenly she's falling into darkness. "Does your pretty cunt want my cum?"

Michael cringes at that, does he have to be so crude? But isn't that what she likes about him? Isn't this the face she was trying to get him to show her all along?

She suddenly remembers Philippa and Sarek and how angry he was and how terrified she had been.

And the sick and grotesque truth is she finds herself wanting to say yes.

"Say it." He orders and she trembles anew.

"Do I have to?" She asks, her voice shaking. He kisses her neck, almost sweetly.

"Yes, doctor's orders." He says, his voice almost humorous.

Michael licks her lips and fortifies herself once again. She can't believe she's here, that it's gotten to this point. And even more she can't believe she's going to say anything so debauched.

"Yes, please. Cum inside me." She finally says and he pumps vigorously and madly into her. The slapping of his flesh against her own awakens an ancient part of herself she didn't even know existed.

It wasn't just love that drove Lord Byron to despair, she realizes, it was _this_. This terrifying euphoria, addictive and absolute.

"Shit," she hears him groan, it's sounds more like a subdued roar coming from him. "You're perfect... so-fucking-perfect."

He suddenly goes rigid against her, he snaps his pelvis in non synced patterns. She bites her lip as he shudders against her. His labored breathing coating her like paint.

Michael feels his hand reach for her clitorous again, rubbing it with the pads of his fingers. She's almost there again.

"That's my girl." She hears him whisper into her neck, his mouth open and licking at her like he's a wolf and she's a doe he's just run down. "Cum for me, let me hear it."

Michael wiggles against his fingers, he's still inside her, still hard... she knows that that can't be normal. Shouldn't he be satisfied?

Fuck, this isn't what he had planned. Not in this dirty shithole. He should've known he couldn't have trusted himself with her anywhere. Any progress he's made has been flushed down the drain as he eagerly gets her off.

He'll deal with the consequences later, right now he needs to feel cum around his still aching cock.

"So... close." She tells him, she's squeezing his manhood so tightly he whimpers. "Yes, don't stop." She moves her hand over his wrist and holds him there. Right _there_ , so fucking close.

When it happens Michael crumbles and collapses, so utterly unclean and filthy in his hands. He's right, she's filthy, obscene and soiled. And she let him do this.

"Fuck, you're beautiful when you cum." He tells her but it doesn't wash away how she feels. She's ruined and disgusting. She feels it in the way their fluids leak from her and down her thighs, the way the table cuts into her flesh, the way his breath overpowers the scent of lilacs.

Outside the shed another blue jay cries, followed by a flurry of flapping wings.

And floating invisible and unseen except to her in her mind's eye is the pixelated face of Eva Wentworth... the words " _have you seen me"_ still and blocky.

How many other girls has he spilt himself into in this rotted shed? How many other naive women has lured into his sinful lair...?

Michael suspected she wasn't the first.

"Relax," he tells her, feeling her going tense suddenly now that life has returned to her limbs. "Don't move." She feels him take a few steady breaths before slowly removing his manhood from her. She winces, the pain of his phallic invasion of her body comes back.

She feels him pulling her pants and underwear up, she hears the fastening of his belt. She wants to cry but she doesn't.

Gabriel lifts her into his arms and carries her back to the house. From her bed, she hears him drawing a bath. He comes to her with a damp towel.

Michael doesn't struggle when he removes her clothes, or when he presses the warm damp cloth to her vagina, wiping away what remains of their coupling.

"I'll need to go into town," he says, his voice still low and raspy. "You'll need a prevention. I was careless and I'm sorry."

Of course. She couldn't return to her Vulcan raised father both ruined and pregnant. That sort of thing wouldn't go over very well. She wonders if they've called her back.

"Come on." He says kindly, lifting her back into his arms and bringing her to the steaming bath.

"Do you need me to stay?" He asks her after he's lowered her into the water. She covers her nakedness and shakes her head. "You don't need to feel ashamed." He says from above.

Looking at him she speaks,

"I do and I don't." She forced her tears to stay put. He nods and leaves the room. Rushing to his car he nearly drops his phone. He'll need to go to a pharmacy out of town, he doesn't need more talk from this bloody town of busy bodies.

Dialing as he reverses, the intended caller picks up straight away.

"I did something," he says, attempting to keep his voice calm. "It's bad. I'll need to see you again."

"Gabe? Calm down. When can we meet?" Terral asks.

"In an hour? Your office. I fucked up." He explains, exiting the driveway and for a moment he worries about the basement. But it's locked. She won't be able to get in.

"It's Eva. It'll be Eva all over again." He says.

"She's not Eva. You're projecting. Calm yourself and I'll see you in an hour." Terral hangs up, leans heavily back into his chair.

He can only begin to imagine what his patient has done now.


	13. Fixation: XII

XII

It takes Michael minutes to realize he's left her alone in his house. Completely unguarded. She washes quickly, she'll worry about the lingering pain later. Her legs are both stiff from having stood in one position too long and wobbly from the mere memory.

She ignores her aching cervix, half limping to her bedroom. Her phone is fully charged, not looking to see if there are any missed calls she opens her camera and enters his room. He's left it unlocked but she doesn't know if it's custom or an accident.

His room is fairly ordinary; above an antique dresser with four drawers are two line drawings.

One is of three triangles overlapping one another on yellowish paper, the other is of an old man holding a broken helmet, he's sporting a weathered leather eyepatch, a six legged horse rests at his side while his shoulders are accompanied by two ravens.

His beard is long but thin, he overlooks a stormy sea with a black sky descending upon him on the horizon.

Amanda had gone through a brief phase of Norse mythology; this was a depiction of the Odin the All Father, possibly at the beginning of Ragnarok.

The triangles could also be an association to the Norse culture but she couldn't say for sure.

She rummages through his dresser, his closet, nothing seems like it doesn't belong. She hates that the scent of him clings to her even now. The bed is unmade and yet not messy.

The bathroom is clean and again nothing is out of place.

His study is next. She tries to open the drawer in his desk but it's locked and there is no visible key, she can't justify breaking it open for fear of his retaliation.

She pulls books back off of shelves, she doesn't know why. She doubts he has a secret door behind one of them.

All that's left is his glass case of priceless knives. Upon closer inspection though one stands out. It's not as old as some but it doesn't quite belong.

It has a cherry wood handle, the blade is sharp on both sides but appears intentionally blunt at the tip.

At the neck are three faded letters. She glances behind her despite knowing she's alone, it doesn't feel like it though.

With a trembling hand she opens the case, surprised to find there's no lock.

Michael reaches in and picks up the knife. The letters are old but she can just barely make them out-

 _HWL..._

At least that's what they appear to be. Initials perhaps? It could be a makers mark.

A sudden breeze tickles her feet, startling her and she drops the knife, nicking her finger in the process.

It falls to the floor, unbroken. Scurrying like a frightened child, she picks it up putting it back in its rightful place, breathing hard.

She closes the case and inspects her injured finger. She suspects it looks worse than it actually is.

She goes to the bathroom, the blood staining the ivory white sink and she scrubs it away, bandaging her wound she looks in the mirror barely recognizing herself.

But she can't stop now.

There's still the downstairs, but her search proves fruitless. Upon returning to her own room she is ready to concede defeat. Then she remembers how her open closet door sends a chill down her spine.

Turning on the flashlight to her phone she inspects the closet. Hangers, an old jacket.

Michael raises a hand; she's not really going to knock is she...?

She knocks three times, she is met by a hollow sound.

Further away, in another town, Gabriel Lorca paces. Terral watches him, fingers pressed together pensively in front of his stoic face.

"You've made a fatal error." Terral simply states, grunting a response Gabriel continues to move back and forth.

"I told you, you weren't ready for this kind of relationship. Let alone with someone so young and inexperienced." Terral explains. "Your treatment was moving along well. And you threw it all away, for what?"

"Are you going to lecture me or help me?" Gabriel asks.

"Are you in love with her?"

"I don't know how I could be. Realistically I barely know her." Gabriel argues.

Terral leans forward.

"Then why have you fixated yourself on her?"

Running a hand over his face, Gabriel shrugs.

"You're a smart man, Gabe," Terral says but the other man knows his compliment will come with an addendum. "I think you do know why you've become, to put it bluntly, obsessed with the girl."

"I'm not obsessed!" Gabriel says, ceasing his pacing and throwing his hands in the air.

"Aren't you?"

Gabriel knows his defense is weak. This is turning into Eva all over again. He still remembers the memorial service like it was yesterday, the way her mother had looked, the way her brother had begged him that if he knew anything about where Eva was or why she would disappear to tell him.

The truth was, Gabriel simply didn't know where she was.

"You need to let go of your guilt," Terral continues. "It was three years ago and it wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" Gabriel asks with a sigh. He finally sits, elbows on his knees. "I was supposed to help her." In his memory Eva smiles at him when he gives her lilacs for her birthday, the way she always smiled at him from across rooms or when she needed him to sign something.

She had made him feel young again, but it had come at a cost. He had never meant to lead her on or give her false hope. In the end, he almost regrets not giving in. Maybe things would be different. Or far worse.

"You did everything you could. How could you have known she would tailspin?"

"I should have seen it coming. Everything in her behavior pointed to a collapse of her self esteem and-"

"None of that matters now," Terral cuts in. "What matters now is Miss. Burnham."

Gabriel nods limply, he knows Terral is right. It's why he came here. Because Terral was the only person who wouldn't sugar coat anything. He would give him facts, tough love and cold hard truth. It's what he needed right now.

"When was the last time you cleaned the basement?" Terral asks and Gabriel realizes he's gone longer than ever before.

"Not since Michael arrived." Gabriel admits.

"That's a sign of progress." Terral says but the other man isn't as convinced.

"I've broken from routine- ever since she showed up I haven't been myself."

Terral rises.

"Or maybe you're finally feeling like yourself again. Did that ever occur to you?"

Honestly, it hadn't. But Gabriel doesn't need to verbalize that for Terral to know he hit the nail on the head. For the last three years Gabriel had clung to his new routine. Work, home, work, home... clean the basement, work, home, work etc...

He had personally shunned himself from relationships for his failures. Ash being an exception because of his connection to Eva. In a way, helping Ash had been his atonement.

The list of people he had hurt because of failing Eva was long and seemed to grow day by day. His own guilt had manifested into another person, haunting him. He was sane enough to seek help and for a while his demons had seemed under control. But with the arrival of Michael, everything had changed.

A gift and a curse she had become. A gift in the sense that he felt the potential for perhaps redemption. A curse in the sense that he had given into his base desires he hadn't with Eva. And it only served to make the cross he already carried that much heavier.

He knew he should have told Michael everything from the beginning, the moment he started feeling something for her. But how could he without scaring her away? He explained to tell Terral what kind of emotionally fragile state of Michael was in and that only forced the other man to encourage Gabriel to break it off before it got out of hand.

If only Gabriel had heeded his friend's advice. Perhaps things wouldn't have gotten so far.

Christ, he can still smell her on his clothes. He had lost all control with her... it's then that he remembers the tape recorder, probably still recording the sounds of the lake and nature. He feels absolutely stupid, ridiculous. He hates himself for what he did to her.

"What is the manifestation saying?" Terral asks him after a time. Gabriel scoffs.

"What do you think?"

"I want to hear you say it." Terral says gently.

The truth is Gabriel hates giving it a voice. He encourages his own patients that they need to verbally admit to their guilt, only then would they begin to feel like a change was happening. Only then would they feel it leave them. However, it was easier to give advice rather than take it for yourself.

"It's saying it was nothing she didn't ask for." Gabriel says, he doesn't need to be graphic with Terral, the man knew him better than most.

"And?"

"And... that we should do it again." Gabriel says, his voice lowering in shame.

"Was it your or the other half that wanted Michael?" Terral asks him.

"It was both of us. Terral, I... I can't seem to control myself around her. She's like a fucking magnet." He says, clenching his thumb in his fist. "I can't go back there. Not yet."

"That's the opposite of what you should do," Terral says. "You need to confront what you've done and finally explain to her your side of things. If you abandon her now even for a short period of time that could prove to be detrimental."

Gabriel wishes he were a different man. He wishes he was more a coward. But he knows Terral is right. He can be strong and keep his bloody lustful hands to himself. He has to. For Michael's sake if not for his own.

If only Gabriel knew where Michael was at that very moment. He shouldn't have left. She had found the old staircase that had been covered over with renovation and time. The staircase that lead to the basement. The one that lead to his guilt.

Misunderstandings, miscommunications, overthinking and overactive imaginations are oftentimes poisonous cocktails we are forced to drink and sew the consequences of things left unsaid. A perfect recipe for disaster.


	14. Fixation: XIII

XIII

If Michael believed for one second that descending a cobweb ridden staircase with only her phone's flashlight as her guide would be fruitless she was about to be proven wrong. The stairs were indeed old. Perhaps they had never been reworked. Dust covered the stairs, there was no sign anyone had come this way in years, only her own footprints remained behind her.

It was colder the further she went down.

Her heart was surprisingly steady.

 _I don't believe in ghosts and the spiders are more afraid of me than I am of them,_ she kept reminding herself.

But there were no spiders in sight, no creepy crawlies to strike fear into her heart. As Michael descended further down she heard a faint humming; it was low and deep. It wasn't a person. It sounded far more mechanical. An old heater perhaps?

The wiring was left to rot ages ago and the lights didn't work. She came to the last step and was met by a green door with a latch handle.

 _I don't believe in ghosts,_ she reminds herself once more before reaching for the latch. As soon as the door opens she's met by heat and darkness. The cold of the stairwell and the immense and sudden heat was powerful by contrast. Firming herself more she steps into the darkness, her feet meet cold cement. She uses her flashlight to find a lightswitch.

When the room was illuminated she choked on her own breath, her hand covers her mouth.

The wall was no longer a wall anymore. It was a map, covered in pictures... Eva, her parents, her brother, Ash in days as a junkie looking gaunt and skeletal. Eva's abandoned car, the inside of it. They were crime scene photos... how in the hell had he gotten them?

Thin, red string criss crossed and met in chaotic jumbles. She inspected the graph more closely. It was a blown up map of Rourke and the surrounding towns, at least a hundred and ten miles.

Newspaper articles and clippings, notepads filled with near mad scribbles and notes. Strangely, a dog leash and collar hang at the left hand side of the map...

"What the hell?" She whispers to herself. Who in God's name was this mad man she had suddenly and willingly fallen into bed with?

 _More like shed,_ she thinks spitefully.

Michael continued her exploration of the basement, the heater went silent, on a timer. She shivers when the room becomes as quiet and still as a graveyard. There was another room with no door. She enters, moving up a single step. The room is filled with paintings, an old yellowed wedding dress hangs in a clear plastic bag, the veil attached to the hanger, a dark near black stain at the hem.

She shivers as she moves closer to one portrait.

The woman's face is lovely, her eyes making deliberate contact with the artist, highly uncommon for the time period it was commissioned in. She wears a white dress with a blue sash, her eyes are exaggerated sapphire blue; perhaps a liberty taken by the artist. Her nose is narrow, her cheeks high and rosy and her hands femininely resting over her lap. Her hair is as dark as the ravens that accompany Odin.

A solid gold ring on her ring finger. Moving closer, squinting in the light, she sees the same initials etched into the knife a few floors above her adorning the ring.

 _HWL..._

The knife that seemed so utterly out of place. The knife that didn't look like a knife at all. A knife that looked like it had been used far more leathely than the dirks and daggers resting beside it.

What had Director Lorca said...

" _She stabbed him so many times in the neck with a letter opener it popped off like a cork..."_

Michael cringes at the memory. Had she really been holding a murder weapon? Below the wood of the frame encasing the portrait was a small golden plaque.

 _Esme Ruthanne Lorca, Beloved Wife._

It was then that the familial resemblance struck her. The eyes especially. Some things are always passed down through the generations. Michael hoped there wasn't a portrait of the evil, mad doctor haunting these walls, ready to jump out and frighten her.

The table was another matter. The table itself was of little consequence to her. But upon it were dusty old medical books, the same initials inside each page. Leather bound diaries written in an archaic cursive and written extensively in German. She didn't speak German, she flipped through some of the pages hoping to find some words that might be in English, something she could translate.

The word ' _blut'_ was written several times on one page, dated at least in English. March 5th, 1889.

Another page was written in what looked like a hurry, others in a calm hand. What Michael could deduce from only his handwriting alone was that the man was clearly manic. But if he was anything like the stories told of him then her deduction was accurate.

It wasn't until the heat roared back to life that she suddenly remembered this was someone's home. Despite what she knew and didn't know about Director Lorca this was his house. These were his personal... whatever they were. They weren't for her eyes. But the map and everything pertaining to Eva, well, she couldn't let that go.

Snapping a few pictures with her camera, Michael shut off the light and returned the way she came. Still as calm as she had been when she had made her descent.

She would wait for him to return and she would ask her questions. She was reminded of why she came to Rourke in the first place. How far away from the naive young woman she had grown. She missed her, she wanted to apologize. She wanted to say so many things to that girl.

It wasn't long after Michael's search of his home did she hear the front door open and close. The sun was lower in the sky but sunset was still a few hours away.

When she heard footsteps ascending the staircase and moving across the landing her heart began to race in her chest. Where had her placid attitude disappeared to? Why was he capable of making her shrink under his gaze?

Why did she suddenly think of the anticipation of his kiss?

The door opens and Director Lorca is there, a plastic bag in his hand and she remembers what could only have been Esme Lorca's wedding dress and the dark stain could only have been blood.

"Michael?" He says her name, his voice shaking, his shoulders are slumped. "I... here."

He extends the bag to her, she takes it cautiously.

 _Plan B_. Well, now or never. She opens the packaging and dry swallows the pill, all the while he watches her.

"How..." he stops, as if he can't bring himself to ask her how she is feeling. She doesn't know what to think of him. Except what she found in his basement was morbid and strange and it leaves her fearing him even more.

"Say something." He says, it's not a request, it almost sounds like he's begging her.

"I don't know what to say. I've never been in this situation before." She says, truthfully.

Nodding, Gabriel comes to sit beside her, but he doesn't touch her. He sighs and rubs his eyes. She looks at him, there are bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess. He never washed after the shed... a musky smell clings to him.

"It's time you knew something," he says without looking at her.

 _This is it, his master plan revealed,_ she thinks to herself.

"Three years ago a girl named Eva Wentworth came to work at the institute. She was a UNH senior. I knew the family in passing, good, moral family. I didn't know it when I hired her that Eva had suffered from severe depression as a teenager due to an uncle sexually abusing her. She later confided in me about the abuse. I offered to listen any time she needed to talk, as a friend." Gabriel rises and looks around the room, his eyes landing on her in a queer way.

As if he's not really looking at Michael, as if Eva is sitting beside her.

"Days turned into weeks," he finally continued, removing his jacket and letting it fall to the floor. "She came to me almost every day. We laughed together, she seemed to be getting better. I shouldn't have encouraged the flirtation but... Christ, I don't know what I was thinking. Then, one night I was working late and she came to say goodnight. She had a glass of water," he pauses and looks into the bathroom as if someone was listening, with his back turned Michael turns on the recorder on her phone. If he was about to confess she wanted it on record, even if he might end up murdering her...

"She said, a penny for your thoughts," Gabriel smiles sadly and leans against the doorframe of the bathroom facing Michael again. "I don't remember what I said. After I drank the water everything was blurry and I woke up the next morning in my day room. The following day I felt hungover and took a personal day. Eva called me, concerned. I thought it was sweet in the moment, until I asked her what happened. She said we talked and I fell asleep, but there was something in her voice. I couldn't just tell she was lying I felt it. There was a strange mark on my hip," he touches the area absentmindedly. "It looked like a bruise, teeth."

Gabriel comes towards her again and Michael visibly tenses, he stops.

"You're afraid of me," he says with a sad laugh. "I guess I deserve that."

"I saw the basement, Gabriel," she spits out finally. His eyes go glassy and he steps away from her, as if he should be afraid of her.

"You... you saw..." he can barely utter the words. He shakes his head. "How?"

"The closet," she points, her lip trembling. "Are you going to kill me?"

A shocked expression paints his face and he shakes his head franktically, finally moving through her invisible wards and landing on his knees in front of her, taking her tiny hands in his own.

"Why would I kill you?" He asks her, his voice sounds betrayed.

"I'm so scared." She admits, her eyes closing and she feels him press his face into her lap.

"Do you want to hear more?" He asks her and she nods, even if he can't see her he knows the answer. "The days that followed she acted strangely. She was physically friendlier. She was touching my arm, my neck. She even tried to kiss me goodbye one evening in front of the staff, thankfully no one saw us. When I refused she grew angry. Asking if there was someone else. I didn't understand. That night she sent me..." he stops again and he looks up at her. "She sent me pictures of us _together_. I was unconscious in them, I was sickened by what I saw. What she was threatening to do. She was convinced we had some sort of sexual relationship, that we were in love. But all I saw was an assault."

Michael isn't sure if she should believe him or not. But his eyes and his voice are wrapping around her and putting doubt into her mind. She had been unsure before but hadn't doubted he had something to do with her disappearance. Perhaps he was innocent after all.

"She said if I didn't love her she would expose me for taking advantage of her and then she would kill herself," he continues, he's still holding her hands. He's rubbing circles into her palms. "I couldn't let her do either. She tried seducing me again and I... she laughed at me," he sniffles. "She laughed when I didn't get aroused, then she became angry. So... hostile."

Michael didn't want him in her lap anymore because the longer he stayed the longer she believed his story. The longer he wept pathetically the more she grew to pity him. The longer he stayed the more she wanted to comfort him.

"She ran away from the institute, going back to her parents, she told me she was going to destroy everything I had built. And she dragged Ash into it all, poor Ash. I had been trying to get him sober for months, he kept relapsing. She dug her claws into him somehow. She was sick, I tried telling her. I tried telling her she needed help but she wouldn't listen. And then, well, she went completely mad."

Michael swallows back her tears, cupping his face she forces him to look at her.

"Are you really telling me the truth?" She asks him. He nods weakly.

"Ash can tell you. He doesn't know everything but he knows enough." He tells her and she sighs.

The map made sense now. Eva had disappeared and he was trying to find her, trying to solve what had happened to her. Even if his intentions were because she could ruin his life, he was trying to find her and help her.

"What happened to her wasn't your fault, then," she says, releasing her fear of him completely. "She was sick and you tried-"

"No, no, Michael," he says shaking his head. "The police never found her body because... I destroyed it."


	15. AUTHOR'S NOTE

_Author's Note_

 _Hey everyone, I know readers hate seeing these dreaded two words but honestly I have an ending in mind for this story but it's turned into the opposite of what I wanted it to be. I should have gone with my gut and my first instinct but I didn't and here we are. I know some of you really like this story and would love for it to keep going, but I think I'll put it on the back burner for now. I need to take a break from writing for a bit and focus on other things. It doesn't mean I don't appreciate the support or the love of the ship. I just need to take a step back for now. Thank you for reading, reviewing and being awesome people! I love you all! Find me on Tumblr you lovely human beings!_


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